


Points

by lifeonmars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Baby Watson, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon Divergence, Choices, Christmas, Clueless John, Decisions, Drinking to Cope, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Married Life, Minor Medical Drama, Pining Sherlock, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Scares, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 53,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The little things are infinitely the most important. -- "A Case of Identity," Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</i>
</p><p>What if <i>His Last Vow</i> never happened?</p><p>This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my invaluable betas, esterbrook & BakerStMel. 
> 
>  

Sherlock tastes blood.

His tape-wrapped hands fly up to block the next blow, right hook, predictable, thrown with the wobbly force of a sack of flour. The punch collides with the wall of Sherlock’s forearms; its owner stumbles forward. Simple physics: an object in motion tends to stay in motion. Fighting is only physics. Every motion must be controlled.

Sherlock waits for an opening, a slow-motion tick of seconds, a shoulder dropped, a hip off-balance. There it is, like the click of a camera’s shutter: the point.

His fist flies out and strikes at the juncture of jaw and neck. Arms go limp, legs stagger and collapse, a sack of flour hitting the ground in a puff of dust.

Sherlock steps back, wings of adrenaline beating in his chest, and pushes a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead. The world pulses in dim cheers and bright light.

* * *

If John was home, John might see the bruises that bloom under Sherlock’s skin, pools of yellow and purple, broken blue veins, red abrasions, a road map of Sherlock's reckless choices. John would clench his jaw, and he'd apply salve with warm fingers, raising gooseflesh over Sherlock’s arms.

When John noticed the gooseflesh, utterly out of Sherlock’s control, he’d laugh. Not aloud; no, he’d be angry with Sherlock, the set of his jaw calculated to make Sherlock regret any future stupidity or rash decisions. But John’s eyes would laugh. And he’d duck his head and hide his expression, and both of them would know that there are things beyond anyone’s control, things that just happen. Sherlock can’t help the gooseflesh, just like he can’t help the way his heart kicks when John’s hands touch him.

John, for his part, can’t help fixing Sherlock. He can’t help finding him, healing him. John will pull his gun and save Sherlock’s life over and over again. And then he’ll round on Sherlock, snarling with worry and annoyance, and his eyes will laugh despite it all. _Yes. Again. Let’s do it again_.

John’s not here to see these bruises.

But the dull ache of a bruise feels like the ghost of John’s hands, so Sherlock goes to the ring.

* * *

He knows it’s reckless. With one unlucky punch, he could be seriously hurt. Sherlock has to be faster than anyone. He has to be stronger. And he is, so far.

It should count for something. Sherlock keeps waiting for it to be important: his strength, his speed. He can solve these men like cases, pick them apart with well-placed blows. He picks them apart, and victory arrives with an empty rush.

John would lose his mind, if he knew. John would tear down the flat.

John doesn’t know, so Sherlock tapes his knuckles.


	2. 15 Weeks

Maybe it started with the television.

John can’t be sure, really, because trying to pinpoint the start of slow, creeping unease is like trying to find the first weed in a garden. It must have started somehow, but God knows where or when.

Slow, creeping unease is what he feels when he climbs the steps to his flat in the suburbs. Not unhappiness, no; that would be too straightforward. Not anger, either, because he’s not sure who to be angry at. He has a good job and a lovely wife and a baby on the way, each of the lifetime achievement boxes ticked neatly, and there’s absolutely no reason he should be feeling anything resembling unease, at all. No reason.

Mary wanted to get a new television when they came back from their honeymoon.

“We don’t need two televisions,” John pointed out. “We’re only two people.”

“You’re not interested in watching the news at night, you know you’re not,” Mary said, over the cups of tea he’d made them both. “I can tell when you’re just trying to make me happy.”

That’s the trouble with Mary: she can deduce emotions like Sherlock can work a crime scene. Thank God Sherlock doesn’t have her particular set of skills.

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” John said, smiling easily, but perhaps too easily, now that he was aware of it. “Keeping you happy.”

“God, I hope you don’t see it as a job,” Mary rejoindered, with the particular dimpled smile that was John’s favourite.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know, love.” Mary reached out and squeezed his hand across the table. “You do a brilliant job keeping me happy. Even though it’s not a job at all.”

“Thanks,” John said, wondering how the conversation had strayed from televisions, and knowing he’d somehow agreed to buy another one, though he couldn’t pinpoint when.

There are a lot of things he can’t pinpoint, these days. The television is just one of them.

* * *

Anyway, they have two televisions now. Mary watches the one upstairs, because she needs the loo all the time, and trooping up and down the narrow stairwell is tedious. John stays downstairs and watches horrendous reality telly instead of the news. At the moment he’s addicted to a tattoo fix-it show on iTV, an endless parade of young people who got drunk enough to tattoo penises on their ankles and celebrity portraits on their buttcheeks. It’s basically the best advertisement against drinking imaginable. John pours himself a glass of whisky and enjoys the hell out of it anyway.

There’s something about the tattoo fix-it process he likes, the problem-solving, maybe. The way a name can disappear when you ink a big hellhound over it, or the way you can turn a giant portrait of Jeremy Clarkson into a Japanese dragon. It makes permanence seem... less permanent.

Or maybe it’s the owning up that’s so appealing. How often do people really admit to their own mistakes? _Hey, I don’t know what I was thinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time. To be honest, I can’t remember a fucking thing._

He’s pretty sure if tattoos had been popular when he’d been at uni, he’d be one of those kids on the show, dropping his trousers to explain why someone had inked “Three Continents Watson” on his backside.

But instead he just thanks God that his mates never dragged him anywhere near a tattoo parlour, and drifts off to the sound of laughter and the buzz of needles.

* * *

The first time he fell asleep in front of the telly, he’d woken up around midnight and staggered upstairs. Mary hadn’t even roused when he slid into bed next to her.

The second time, he’d slept until two in the morning. His neck hurt like hell the next day.

“We have a bed,” Mary reminded him. “It’s half yours.”

“I know, I know. I love the bed,” he’d said, trying to work the kinks out of his bad shoulder.

The third time, he’d woken up in his clothes when Mary came downstairs in the morning.

He doesn’t mean to do it. He does make it upstairs some of the time. It’s just something that happens, now. Since they have two televisions.


	3. 16 Weeks

John did come around more often before the wedding, but Mary is pregnant now. Her growing bump seems to have a hold on John’s attention, as well it should. Its size and weight exerts a gravitational force of its own, pulling John inward to hold doors open, and fuss over Mary, and stay closer to the flat in the suburbs. It is the way of things. Soon Mary will produce a little being with half of John’s genetic material and the world will be measurably brighter for it.

Mary texts Sherlock frequently.

_He’s driving me crazy. Wants to install a baby gate at the top of the stairs, bit premature, don’t you think? M._

_I’m sure you’ll need it at some point. SH_

_How about the point at which I’m not pregnant anymore and it’s not a pain in the arse to open it when I want to walk around my bloody house? M._

_It will always be a pain in the arse to open it. Maybe it’s best to get used to it. SH_

_Always quick to his defence, aren’t you? M._

_Best friend. My job. SH_

_That’s why I love you. Take him out sometime, or he’ll latch the toilets shut next. M._

John is often busy. He has a long commute. Or they’ve got an appointment with Obstetrics. Or he wants to go out, but Mary’s got the car and he’ll have to take the train and it’s Friday afternoon and Kings’ Cross is going to be a bloody nightmare.

“Tell me about it over the phone, Sherlock,” he says, but the signal from his flat is poor and his voice skips like a stone over water. John must be standing in his kitchen; three steps, click of a door, and he’s on his back porch. One more bar of signal.

“Missing heiress,” Sherlock says. “On holiday in Europe. No one’s seen or heard from her since she checked into her hotel in Germany three weeks ago. Seems she stands to inherit a sum from one of the more prominent Swiss watch companies.”

“Okay,” John says. “And you suspect the family.”

“Of course I suspect the family. It’s always the family -- _oh._ ”

John’s just activated the bit of Sherlock’s brain that hadn’t been paying attention. John has a tendency to do this.

“I have to go,” Sherlock says, and hangs up the phone.

Three days later, in Montpellier, Sherlock apprehends his suspect. Then he calls John back.

“It was the uncle,” he announces, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding. He’ll have a black eye, but nothing worse. No, the worst of it is that he’s still nursing a cracked rib from last week’s fight, and he couldn’t duck quickly enough to dodge the punch.

“You’re hurt,” John decides, from his back porch, and Sherlock feels a swell of pride. John’s observational skills have improved in recent years. These days, he only misses blatantly obvious things about half the time.

“I’m fine.”

John’s voice rises. “You’re not, I can tell. Can’t you get a bloody doctor to look at it for you?”

“Nothing’s broken.”

“Well I’m not there, am I?” John fumes. “How can you be sure?”

“Nothing. Is. Broken,” Sherlock repeats.

He isn’t sure why he’s lying. It just seems like the thing to do.


	4. 17 Weeks

Mary is also lying, but again, it seems like the thing to do.

Sherlock isn’t sure when he first put it together, but you can only spend so many hours planning a wedding with someone before you realise their carefully cultivated accent is just that: carefully cultivated.

But the wedding sped toward them, and Sherlock had been far out of his depth planning seating charts, learning the tiny galaxy of points that radiate from John Watson. Sherlock was the best man; it was his job to navigate this unfamiliar universe. There had been no appropriate time for Sherlock to mention that John’s fiancee was most likely not the nurse she claimed to be.

Mycroft only scoffed. “Took you this long, did it,” he’d said, when Sherlock called. “You’re worrying me, Sherlock. I wonder if you did sustain a head injury in Serbia.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I assumed you knew.”

“You assumed nothing. You waited to see when I’d notice.”

“Truly, Sherlock, you imagine I’m playing games I’ve no interest in playing.”

Sherlock swallowed a snarl with great effort. “Do I.”

Mycroft huffed, the noise he always made when Sherlock caught him in a lie.

Sherlock had wavered on the precipice between fury and a genuine need for help. It was a place he visited often when dealing with his brother. Familiarity did not make it any less difficult to balance there.

“I should tell him about Mary,” Sherlock said, edging as close to a question as he ever did with Mycroft.

“Are you asking me what to do?”

“Of course not.”

“Sherlock, you certainly know what’s best. I believe John Watson is your area of expertise.”

“It will upset him.”

“Quite possibly, yes. I’d place a high probability on that outcome.”

Sherlock had hung up on his brother at that point. He might also have said a few things that were less than polite. Unfortunately Sherlock has deleted that part of the conversation.

Mary, for her part, has always been perfectly calm. She’s spent hours with Sherlock knowing the extent of his observational skills, and she’s either breathlessly confident in her own ability to fool him, or feels she has nothing to hide. Either way, Sherlock can’t help but be impressed. He opts to believe that she has chosen not to disturb John with the details of her former life. And he understands this, having done the same long ago, although hiding an old heroin habit is not quite on the level of concealing a former career as an assassin.

He is sure that telling John about Mary is the right thing to do. And also, that it’s absolutely wrong.


	5. 19 Weeks

Blood tastes like metal: chemistry, of course. Red blood cells contain hemoglobin, hemoglobin contains iron. And although humans have shockingly poor senses in the sphere of the animal kingdom, they are able to detect the taste of metal in very small amounts. A useful warning, evolution’s signature touch. The taste of blood should be vivid, bright, unnatural. Alarming. 

At Barts, Sherlock had tasted blood. Several times, of course, and only under safe laboratory conditions. His own blood, just the once. After he’d jumped.

An air mattress might save your life, but it still felt like landing on solid ground, the rough surface abrading Sherlock’s cheek like sandpaper. The road rash of the falsely suicidal. 

He’d been lucky, hadn’t broken anything. He’d relaxed his limbs, trusting in the fine-tuned mechanics of his plan, and he’d been able to stand and walk away without major injuries. Only a few scrapes on his face, a laceration on his forehead. He had bitten his tongue, but not badly. His plan was perfect, the players wheeling into place like clockwork, the cogs set in motion. A window opened, and he was free.

Blood filled his mouth, then, and he’d swallowed. It was only then that he’d felt fear, panic, regret. The taste of alarm. Evolution’s signature touch. 

_John._

The pieces were in motion. He’d left anyway.

He tasted blood in Europe, in Serbia again and again, until the copper tang of it became indistinguishable from any other taste, from the taste of hunger, of dry bread, of nothing at all.

But when he came back, when John gripped his shoulders and slammed into him, rage and anguish and betrayal and confusion -- John always thought Sherlock didn’t understand emotion, but Sherlock missed none of this, _none of it_ \-- when John’s skull connected with Sherlock’s, bone resounding against bone, blood swirled into Sherlock’s mouth and he tasted panic. As if he’d never tasted blood before.

And as Sherlock stood with Mary, whom he’d known for all of an hour -- liked her, didn’t trust her, still liked her -- he couldn’t even smell her perfume, because his nose and mouth had filled with iron, with copper. He’d pressed a handkerchief to his face -- hers, he never carried one -- and his senses overwhelmed him with the metal tang of warning.

He sought out punches, after that. He wants that taste again, an echo of that night. These days he tapes his fists and finds he can’t stay away. 

It is, perhaps, what he deserves.


	6. 21 Weeks

Mary’s beautiful all the time, but especially when pregnant. John can’t resist kissing the apples of her cheeks and running a possessive hand over the bump that houses their daughter. One afternoon John gets home early and puts the leftover soup on the hob to heat, and it fills their small kitchen with the smell of onions and cumin, and the sun throws crooked light onto the table. Soon enough Mary’s key turns in the lock and she comes inside, windblown and apple-cheeked. John kisses her after she shrugs off her red coat, and she kisses him back, and it feels right. It feels like their wedding pictures, all yellow and warm. It feels right in a way that makes John wonder if maybe some days don’t feel right, and he’s only just noticed.

But right now, things are fine, better than fine, and they linger over soup and the last toasted bites of yesterday’s baguette, and Mary tells him about the endless reams of paperwork the office can’t seem to handle. John watches the autumn light creep across the floor like a slow, golden flood.


	7. 22 Weeks

He was happy on his wedding day, blissfully so. The happiest day of his life. So it’s normal, probably, when other days aren’t quite the same. Not every day is going to have that same excitement, that rush of something momentous, the hugeness of new adventure. No one lives that way.

He can always go to Baker Street. Sherlock will be there with his bloody experiments, and he’ll drag John somewhere so they can chase after some madman with a gun. Two guns. And a poisoned switchblade. In a locked room.

John pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens the text message app. He stares at it, then puts it away.

He washes the dishes, listening to the sound of Mary’s news programme upstairs. The dish soap squelches through his hands, foaming over the lip of the soup pot.


	8. 23 Weeks

Sherlock feels the sickening crunch of teeth against his knuckles. A punch slices back at him, swift and unerring, and he barely gets a forearm down in time to block it. Sweat runs down the back of his neck. Exhaustion saps at his bones, deep enough that he can’t ignore it, but his pulse rides high and he dances away, ducks, spots his opening.

It’s over fast. Someone thrusts Sherlock’s hand in the air, slippery with sweat and tape. His opponent groans, rolls to one side, and spits blood onto the floor.


	9. 24 Weeks

“You haven’t been to see him,” Mary says, as John merges into traffic on the motorway. The morning’s rain blurs into streaks across the windscreen and he switches on the wipers.

“I’ve been to see him. I was just over there.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“He’s _my_ best friend.”

“I know that.” Mary shifts, her growing shape increasingly uncomfortable in the passenger seat. “I think you need to see him, is all. You get -- irritable, otherwise.”

John blows out a breath. “Irritable.”

“Case in point.”

“You saying I’m irritable?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“I don’t feel like driving up to visit your friend Laura on a rainy weekend, that’s all. I’ve met her twice, I can’t even remember the first time.”

“You’d rather sit in the flat.”

John takes a breath. “Maybe.”

“All you do is sit in the bloody flat. We’ve got protectors on every outlet, John, the baby’s not even due until January. She’s not going to start an electrical fire while in utero.”

“I don’t know, she’s _your_ baby.”

Mary smirks at him. “Funny. No, I’m worried about you. I don’t know why you don’t go into London and solve crimes for an afternoon.”

“Because it won’t be just an afternoon,” John snaps. “It can’t be, the cases don’t work that way. You know that.”

“And I’m saying, it’s fine.”

“That doesn’t sound like what you’re saying.”

Mary’s voice sharpens. “I’m sorry, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

John lapses into silence. The engine hums noisily over the squeak of the windscreen wipers.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He is an arse. Mary’s right, and he’s an arse. She’s just trying to help.

“You’re fine, love,” she says, and squeezes his hand as he downshifts.

* * *

When he was ten, when his father died, they had to move house. Mum needed to live near her sister, or so she said.

John doesn’t remember much, but he remembers his old room, and the yard that extended back between the row houses like a long, green bowling alley, weeds choking the far corners.

They’d been staying with his aunt when Mum told them about the house. John hadn’t gone with them to pack up. Harry and his mum had gone alone.

“It’s just a house,” he’d told them, pretending he didn’t care, that at ten he was already man enough to have no particular attachment to a row house. It was just like all the rest.

He didn’t tell them he couldn’t go back to see it. He couldn’t go inside, knowing he could never stay there again.


	10. 27 Weeks

Sherlock’s thumb steadies the pipette as he drops a pearl of liquid into a petri dish. The liquid unfurls into the dish, dark edges thinning as it spreads. Human blood mixed with two parts glycerin, left to dry overnight on a smooth surface. He will take photos tomorrow.

Everyone told him things would change when John got married, as if Sherlock did not understand change. Chemistry, after all, is the _study_ of change. Sherlock, who holds a bloody graduate degree in the subject, understands change better than most of the population ever will.

John assured him nothing would change, but John is not a chemist. John is a doctor; he believes in cures, treatment, bandages. Sherlock believes in the hollow truth of atoms and the transformation of matter. The world is in a constant state of flux, and anyone who says otherwise is too dull to observe it.

No, John just wanted to believe nothing would change. So Sherlock smiled, and agreed, because he couldn’t say no to John Watson.


	11. 28 Weeks

Mary’s texts give Sherlock a pleasant-yet-unpleasant jolt. He loves her like he loves a trail of blood. So few people in the world are truly interesting, truly _dangerous_. John has, being John, found one.

_Don’t you have something for him? I thought you were chasing a missing heiress. M._

_Solved it. SH_

_Family affair? M._

_Of course. SH_

_You must have something. M._

_He’s installed the cabinet latches today, then? SH_

_Every fucking cabinet in the kitchen. M._

Sherlock’s stomach drops. For a moment he fights with the image of John Watson, soldier, doctor, crack shot, spending the day with a drill and screwdriver, installing latch after latch.

_He knows he’s welcome anytime. SH_

_Yes, he does. And now I need you to make him remember that. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. You didn’t have a fight, did you? M._

Ah, Mary. A double meaning there, or no? Sherlock’s left wrist is still sore from last night’s match. Mary does love to drop the occasional reminder that Sherlock isn’t the only one skilled at deduction.

_Not that I recall. SH_

_Good. It’s not that I don’t want him here, Sherlock. He’s just a little on edge. M._

_Understood. Will text him. SH_

_What would we do without you? M._

Sherlock loses the better part of an hour thinking about the answer to that question.

* * *

John arrives two hours later, wiping his feet and stowing his sodden umbrella in the foyer. Sherlock doesn’t see this, but it’s easy enough to decipher the familiar sounds of John coming home. Sherlock adjusts a slide of local soil on the base of his microscope and pretends he’s interested in it.

John walks into the kitchen doorway and waits. He doesn’t rifle through the kitchen cabinets or shove his way past Sherlock to put on the kettle. Instead he stands, everything in the set of his frame belying an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

There should be nothing uncertain about John’s presence in the flat. Sherlock swallows and glances up, details ticking away, point after point: John showered yesterday, shaved this morning. Didn’t sleep well last night -- make that the past two nights -- or more. John’s not sleeping well in general: his neck’s bothering him, given the way he’s holding his shoulder. Stayed up late watching telly, fell asleep in the chair, that’s certainly it. His belt’s over a notch, his face a shade fuller. He has the wary unease and pallor of someone deprived of sunlight at an office job. His new shirt is a shade brighter than one he’d usually select for himself, and it looks a bit like someone’s tried to splash cheery paint on a grey stone facade.

The muscles in John’s jaw jump, and Sherlock realises belatedly that John is gathering evidence of his own. Sherlock can’t remember if the yellow-green smudge under his right eye has faded enough to escape John’s notice. It had been a close fight, a man much taller than Sherlock who got in one good punch before he overbalanced and went down.

John should be spared the details.

“You look thin,” John says, after a moment.

“You don’t,” Sherlock says. He can’t help it.

John blinks, smiling tightly. “Thanks.”

Awkwardness fills the space between them. This isn’t right, none of it is right and it’s Sherlock’s fault, all of it. He jumped so that John Watson would not die, so that Moriarty could not cut his heart out, and it happened anyway. John changed, everyone changes, compounds break down, nature decomposes and now John is standing here in the vacant shell of their old life.

John didn’t mean for this to happen. John met someone, he was given something wonderful and now it’s Sherlock’s job to make sure John enjoys it.

“How’s Mary?”

“Oh. Um. Fine, I think. Fine. She’s -- not sleeping well, but.”

John remains in the doorway, his armchair behind him.

“Insomnia is a very common symptom at this stage,” Sherlock offers.

“Yeah. That’s what the doctor says. But I suppose you’ve looked it up?”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

John huffs a laugh, folds his arms over his chest. “Should’ve known.”

Silence stifles them once more. Sherlock fiddles with the focus on the microscope. Tea. He should have offered to make tea, John doesn’t live here anymore.

John shifts his weight. The floor creaks. “You asked me to come.”

There is no case, really, no case nearly as pressing as the silence that clogs Sherlock’s lungs. He stalls for time, picks up his phone, scrolls through dozens of unread emails. Taps one at random.

“Yes,” he says, taking a breath, filling himself with the falsehood of authority. “Missing rugby player. Cambridge. Apparently they need him for an important match.”

John tilts his head. “You called me for this.”

“You played rugby,” Sherlock improvises.

“Okay,” John says, and he looks hassled, and grateful, and the tiniest bit sad.

* * *

Sherlock solves the case from the flat -- of course he does. The rugby player has a secret pregnant girlfriend, and he’s disappeared to be at her side in case she loses the baby. All told, it takes them about an hour’s worth of phone calls to crack it. Because it’s not a real case, is it? It’s an excuse for Sherlock to get John into London. Because John hasn’t visited in weeks. It’s the reason for the pit of rancid guilt that’s taken up permanent residence in John’s gut.

John attempts to smother the guilt with a large helping of takeaway, and they watch telly and stumble upon John’s beloved tattoo program. Sherlock makes hilarious deductions about the show’s hapless ink victims, and John laughs so hard he forgets nearly everything else. He falls dead asleep on the sofa and wakes up just enough to stagger to the loo on his way to bed. He’s halfway up the stairs before he remembers that his bed isn’t here. This isn’t even his flat.

He backtracks, mouth dry with the stale taste of sleep, and stumbles back into the sitting room. He hadn’t even noticed, but Sherlock’s asleep in his own chair, long legs angling toward the sofa. Even in the low light, John can make out a bruise disappearing under the loose collar of Sherlock’s t-shirt. From the tussle in France, that heiress case, Sherlock had said. But it was fine, Sherlock said. He was fine.

The indentation on the sofa where John passed out is still warm. The pillows are squashed in the exact configuration John prefers. He runs a hand over the imprint of his own body on the worn leather, and calls a cab.


	12. 28 Weeks, 1 Day

It’s only the next night, when he sits in his own chair, in his own house, that John realises he’s become his father.

He mumbles a sleepy goodnight to Mary as she heads up the stairs, a glass of whisky in his hand as the telly casts light-and-dark shadows. His eyes fight to stay open. It all seems familiar: the goodnight, the light from the telly, the whiff of whisky. It’s as if a thin film of John’s own childhood has settled over the room, only he’s sitting in his father’s place. Drinking his father’s drink. Saying “goodnight” in that same detached, sleep-tinged murmur.

John jolts awake, a sick feeling thumping through him. He sets down the glass and puts his head between his knees.

* * *

John’s father worked at the local mill, hard work, manual labour, and at the end of the day he was married to someone he simply didn’t love.

John’s father was a man of principle. He went to church, he never took a day off work, he spent money frugally and sat at the dinner table each night. He treated John’s mother with cheerful politeness, as if they were co-workers assigned to the same project. (Which, John supposed, they were.) If his parents weren’t particularly affectionate -- well, they were private people. If his father never slept in his mother’s bedroom -- well, he snored, or so his mum said.

One night his father didn’t come home.

Looking back, John can connect the dots: every night a solid circle filled in by his father’s heavy glass of whisky, his unmoving seat by the telly. The slow, watered-down despair of a life he did not particularly want to finish. It felt as if his father had been reading a book and simply stopped in the middle. It wasn’t that he hated the book. He just didn’t care enough to find out what happened in the end.

Cause of death: drunk driver. Car flipped at the side of the road, John’s father pronounced dead at the scene. John did not need to be told that the drunk driver and his father were one and the same.

The frightening thing wasn't the moment they first knew. The frightening thing was how inevitable it seemed, even as his mother put her hands over her mouth and stared, wide-eyed, at the officer at the door.

His father lived life in a straight line, a line that did not deviate until it simply stopped. Without realising it, John has found that line, has fought his way past detours and chasms to reach this flat, well-worn path.

The worst of it isn’t that John knows his destination. No, the worst of it is that he knows what it’s like to be the child watching from the side of the road.


	13. 28 Weeks, 2 Days

Mary’s normalcy fills him with panic. She asks him questions and drops kisses in his hair as if nothing is wrong. Perhaps nothing is wrong. Nothing should be wrong.

He can’t finish breakfast. He scrapes remnants of egg and toast into the bin and apologises.

“Going in early,” he says, not even sure if he can formulate a reliable excuse, if pressed.

Mary looks slightly surprised but doesn’t seem bothered. “Okay,” she says. “Home for dinner, though?”

“Mmm,” John says, meeting her eyes and feeling a pang of fondness. He’s making something out of nothing. He loves Mary. He does.

She gives him a sphinx-like smile. “See you later, then. We’ll wait up for you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “We?”

Mary glances down at herself. “The two of us. Completely protected from any harm in the kitchen, I might add. In case the teacups are staging an attack.”

“We’ll need those latches,” John reminds her. “We’ll be too busy once the baby’s here.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t installed padded walls yet.”

“That’s next week.”

Mary grins. “Go on, then, Captain Safety.”

John gathers his bag and his jacket and heads out the door, wondering if he’s acting strangely, but feeling too rattled to rectify anything. Halfway down the block, he pulls out his phone. There’s really only one thing he ever needs when his worry goes bone-deep, and he dials Sherlock’s number without making the conscious decision to do it.

Sherlock picks up on the first ring, a note of concern in his voice. “John.”

Concern. Why? Because it’s early in the morning, because John almost never calls when he can text.

Because John almost never calls, these days.

“Um. Hi,” John says lamely, hustling down the street. He has no idea what to say. He feels a massive flood of relief at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and then a quick, rising horror at his own reaction.

“Are you all right?”

“I --” No, John thinks. God no. “I’m fine. Um. Sorry to bother you.”

“No bother,” Sherlock says slowly, and John knows that voice. Sherlock’s brain has gone zero to sixty guessing the reason for John’s call. Which -- not good.

“I just, I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, in such a soft, surprised tone that John’s heart clenches.

It’s this simple syllable that cracks John open, comprehension flooding through him with one unwelcome bolt of truth. He staggers to a stop on the street.

“Sorry,” he says again.

“John.”

“I have, um. I’ve got to be at work.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, in that same quiet voice. John continues to crack open. It feels like he’s spilling apart where he stands.

“Thanks for the case the other day,” John manages.

“Yes.”

Sherlock usually hangs up first. He does not.

“I’ll, um. I’ll talk to you later,” John says, and somehow cuts off the call.

* * *

John is married to a beautiful woman, has a baby on the way, has the best friend anyone could rightly have. And yet all of this together does not add up to a balanced equation. John should be the happiest he’s ever been, and instead he’s gripped with terror at the wrongness of it all.

His instincts have always been solid, utterly reliable. If he’s cornered, if anyone’s in danger, he pulls his gun. He doesn’t have to think. And in a moment of deep fear and insecurity, he calls the one person he needs, the one person he trusts.

That person is not his wife.

And there -- _there_ is where the equation doesn’t line up. It feels like someone’s made a calculation error in the margins of his life. His gut instinct should be wired to Mary -- he loves her, undeniably. But, gun to his head, he’d call someone else.

He doesn’t want to understand why this is, and yet he needs to understand. He’s made plenty of choices to get here, choices that seemed logical and reasonable and right, and all this level-headed logic and reason has put him squarely in his father’s place with a glass in his hand.

It’s a mystery the best detective in the world can’t solve. 

John has to figure this one out without him.


	14. 28 Weeks, 3 Days

John must have been on his way to work early: road noise in the background. His voice had a raw catch that drove straight through Sherlock like a right hook. That was yesterday morning. He hasn’t called since.

Lestrade calls instead. He’s got a case -- woman, 25, found dead in a skip near Old Street. “No,” Sherlock interrupts, and hangs up.

Something’s wrong, but Sherlock has no idea what it might be. This is unacceptable on all fronts. The feeling of not knowing, of not understanding, is a slow, frozen panic that doesn’t abate. Of all feelings, it is the feeling Sherlock is least able to endure.

* * *

Sherlock should tell John about Mary. It makes no logical sense that he hasn’t. The knowledge throbs like a weight in his chest, as if each time his blood circulates, it drags lead through his veins. Best friend. Best man.

Sherlock can hear the conversation before it happens: _Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock? You had to fucking know. You're the Great Sherlock Holmes. You knew everything about me the minute you met me. I married her. I married her and you didn’t tell me._

Sometimes, fiction is safer. And it’s not even so much fiction as omission. An absence of knowledge. Empty space where there might be something sharp and terrifying.

 _How could I tell you,_ Sherlock would have to say. _I caused you great pain. I saw you happy and distracted, moving past what I’d done. How could I take that from you? You deserve better. You deserve everything._

When he finds out about Mary -- if he finds out -- John will blame Sherlock. And Sherlock will deserve everything. He’ll deserve all of it, the flood of hurt and incredulity and fury. But until then it’s safer to deal in empty spaces, to let the space between them push John away.

There’s so much space between them, now.

When they were watching telly the other day, John started laughing, and for a minute everything was just as it used to be. The sound warmed every bit of Sherlock, sent electricity through the heavy, leaden blood in his veins.

The relief of John’s laugh had been so deep that Sherlock didn’t remember falling asleep. When he woke, John was gone, the pillows on the sofa squashed into place just the way John had always liked them.

* * *

Yesterday was a blur, a cacophony of nerves propelling John into another whisky-soaked evening. His brain spun its wheels until he finished the bottle and knocked himself out at last.

Now he's still anxious, but he's wretchedly hung over, to boot. He stumbles through a shower and is nearly ready for work when he realises Mary's still in her dressing gown. That's right -- she's not working again today. She's cut down to three-quarters time at the office. He barely knows what day it is.

He needs time to think.

"You okay?" she asks, as he fails to neatly knot his tie.

"Fine," he assures her, and escapes.

Once at work, John pulls his office door shut behind him. It clicks shut with a feeble noise, more cardboard than door. At the moment he’d prefer to sit in something more like a bank vault, ten feet of insulation between his thoughts and the rest of the world. He needs to sort through the mess of confusion his brain has become, and a busy office isn’t quite what the doctor ordered. No pun intended.

Mary’s photo smiles at him from his desk, a photo from their wedding day, her luminous eyes softened by the veil that partially obscures her face. It’s a beautiful photo; of all the ones their photographer took, it’s the one that seems to most capture Mary. Their talented, vengeful photographer. Somehow, John isn’t surprised that they accidentally hired a murderer to document their wedding.

He shuts his eyes and allows himself to admit what he’s tried to ignore since the beginning.

He loves Mary, God he loves her, but she is as unknown as she is familiar. He’s never acknowledged, until now, that she has a side to her he’s never seen. Maybe that’s what drew John to her in the first place -- all right, it was definitely what drew John to her in the first place. Sherlock was dead and John was ten feet down a well of grief, and Mary got him out. She captivated him, and by doing so, saved him: this beautiful cypher of a person. But there’s always been something missing -- that one angle John’s never seen. An illusion of intimacy, two people wrapped in the guise of happy bride and groom.

He studies her photo again: Mary, behind a veil.

Sherlock’s voice, in his head: _There’s something I’ve been missing, something staring me in the face --_

Mary sees everything. She's frighteningly quick. It's a rush, talking to Mary -- that's one of the things John loves about her. But she never turns that sharpness toward herself, never offers up anecdotes about her life. They can spend hours talking and very little of it will be about Mary herself.

She's selfless, that's all. Outwardly focused. Extroverted. That must be it.

Mary rarely talks about her childhood; she doesn’t mention university much, either. When she describes her past, her voice is animated, careful. John has always assumed she’d been through something difficult, something she doesn’t like to relive. But he’s never asked, and now they’re having a child and he’s scared, he’s bloody terrified, because Mary still remains a beautiful cypher and she’s carrying a part of him.

He can’t stop installing latches, drilling baby gates into their walls for this child who won’t even arrive for months, and why is that? Why does he have this drive to lock up everything in their house?

Why does he subconsciously feel like he needs to protect this baby?

He’s fucking paranoid, that’s what this is. He’s just a nervous first-time father-to-be who always expects the other shoe to drop. He’s got no reason to think Mary’s hiding anything. Why should he expect his wife to have a questionable past when he’s got no actual data, no evidence? Why should he expect everything in his life to have a hidden dimension of danger?

Well. He’s been kidnapped two -- no, three times, strapped to a bomb, thrown in a fire, and his wedding photographer turned out to be a bloody murderer.

Maybe there’s no such thing as paranoia in a life like his.

 _I don’t like not knowing,_ Sherlock’s voice says in his head, and John feels truly awake for the first time in ages.


	15. 28 Weeks, 4 Days

John can’t keep feigning normalcy. The strain of pretending to be his usual oblivious self is eroding his sanity. He needs to sort through the mess of his life, to take stock while Mary’s not there. But he’s got work all week, and she’s home whenever he is. He did marry her, after all.

They haven’t had sex in two months.

Two months. They haven’t even been married a year. They haven’t even been married _half_ a year. _Two months_ , and he’s only just taking stock now, realising things might not be quite right. How fucking deep is the well of denial he’s dug for himself? It feels like he’s finally lit a torch and he still can’t see how far down it goes.

He needs Sherlock badly. Sherlock, who would know immediately what to look for, who would understand the precise nature of John’s nebulous feeling of dread. But John can’t involve him in this, can’t confide his doubts when his marriage is so new that they’re still writing thank-you cards for dishes and cutlery. Sherlock _believes_ in them. He made a vow, said he’d be there for John and Mary. John is not about to brush that aside over a little bit of formless anxiety.

He begs off work in the middle of the day, claiming a splitting headache. Mary puts a soft hand on his arm as he bends over the nurse’s desk to kiss her. She asks if he’s okay. Her eyes search his, flick over his face, scanning: she thinks he’s drinking too much. She’s right. Mary’s always right. He wonders what else she sees, what else she doesn’t say aloud.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Fine,” he says. He needs to lie down, he says. Dark room, paracetamol, he’ll be fine in a few hours. It’s not really a lie. Mary can sense the truth in it, at least.

“Get some rest,” she tells him.

He can’t get home fast enough. He spends a fortune on a cab ride.

Back at the house, he sets to work immediately. He’s never been one for organising or arranging things -- he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in half of the upstairs bureaus -- but at long last, he looks. He examines their bookshelves. He carefully studies Mary’s cosmetics, her clothing, her jewelry boxes. His heart hammers as if he’s trying to defuse a bomb. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, or why he’s looking at all.

He finds -- nothing. Nothing amiss. Only half-used tubes of lipstick, brightly coloured winter coats, an envelope full of theatre ticket stubs. Dog-eared novels. A daily planner from 2012. Prenatal vitamins. Maternity clothes, some still with tags. A floral-patterned box from Cath Kidston full of wedding photos and a few pressed flowers from Mary’s bridal bouquet.

After a very long hour, John slumps into his chair downstairs, defeated. He feels halfway insane, his nerves twitching like severed wires. He didn’t know what he expected to find. Maybe he’s simply starved for action, looking for a fix, as Sherlock would put it. Maybe he’s trying to pin their relationship strain on something bigger, a sinister plot like the cases he loves so much. It would be far more thrilling than thinking their problems are ordinary. John’s life has been decidedly lacking in danger these days.

He should call Sherlock, confess to being paranoid. Sherlock will tell him he’s being an idiot, and for once, John needs to hear it.

Or Greg, he should call Greg, it’s been ages. Lestrade has kids -- he’d probably tell John it’s just cold feet. A baby is a huge life change; it’s forever in a way that marriage is not. He and Mary, forever combined in an individual who will depend on him the way he depended on his own father. It’s a lot to deal with. And it’s still so new, really.

A bin lorry pulls up outside. A loud crash-crunch as they empty the bins. A neighbor’s dog barks, a high, shrill sound.

_It’s still so new._

And there it is. The thing that’s right in front of him, or rather, the thing that’s _not_ in front of him. A lie of omission. It’s not what Mary has hidden in their flat -- she’s hidden nothing. It’s what she _hasn’t_ hidden. It’s what she doesn’t even own: anything more than ten years old.

John scrambles to his feet and begins poring over their bookshelves, pulling out Mary’s books and checking publication dates. Nothing. Nothing older than a decade. John’s still got his medical textbooks from uni, his childhood copy of _Robin Hood_ , but Mary’s books are all fairly recent. Every single one of them.

Upstairs, her clothing doesn’t reveal much. The few vintage items in her closet have been purchased since John’s known her; her luggage is even fairly new. She does own a few pieces of antique jewelry, but given her penchant for vintage dresses, it’s entirely possible that Mary bought these antique pieces too.

This is probably nothing. Is it nothing? It’s a gut instinct. It’s a gut instinct so strong John feels drunk with it.

What’s truly odd is the lack of mementos from Mary’s early adulthood. Lack of childhood photos -- that’s an orphan’s lot, or so she’s said. But here, in what should be their cozy, memory-strewn home, John finds no letters, no yearbooks, no tucked-away scraps of the more recent past. It’s as if Mary came into existence fully formed at about thirty years old. Like someone invented her, brought her to life just to save John’s.

John finds the envelope of theatre ticket stubs and rifles through them: 2013, 2009, 2011, 2009.

In the back of the closet, a grey, latched box contains John’s army uniform, his dress uniform, photos from his mum’s house. A few letters from his mum when he was in Afghanistan. His father’s watch. He took it from Baker Street when he moved out, and he’s never been without it. Mary, for whatever reason, has no such item.

As carefully as he can, John replaces everything, hands steady and cool, and locks the door on his way out.

* * *

Curtains rustle against the visibly cracked windows at Baker Street, the door knocker slightly askew. John pulls open the door, letting it slam behind him as he pounds his way up the stairs. He’s standing in front of Sherlock before he can think about it, breathing hard. Sherlock, curled in his chair, appears to be -- not doing much of anything.

Sherlock’s eyes rake over him, and his jaw slackens slightly. “John.”

It’s only then that John’s thoughts catch up to reality, seventeen steps behind. _Is it possible to surprise Sherlock Holmes with something he doesn’t already know?_

_Does Sherlock know something about Mary?_

A tidal wave is on the tip of John’s tongue, but he can’t speak. Because he doesn’t want to hear the answer to that question. He doesn’t know if he can stand the creep of regret in Sherlock’s eyes, the “Sorry, I couldn’t tell you.” _Sorry, John, I had to fake my suicide in front of you. Sorry I couldn’t call you for two years._ They’ve already been through months of “sorry.” John isn’t sure he can take much more.

He takes a breath, and instead, simply looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks terrible. He’s in his blue dressing gown, which precisely matches the colour of the new bruise on his left cheekbone. The one on his collarbone has faded to more of a greenish tint. He looks like a diminished version of himself, discoloured, as if someone’s turned down the light and shadows that usually play over his face.

John forgets everything else. “What the hell’s going on?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker with guilt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Something’s going on with you. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“I used to live here.”

“Did you.” Sherlock smirks.

John swallows. “See, this --” He gestures between them. “This is weird, Sherlock. This isn’t right. Something’s not right and I -- well.”

The sheer weight of all the things that aren’t right propels John to an abrupt halt.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Are you.”

“Yes.”

“If it’s drugs again, you can tell me,” John says quietly.

“It’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snaps, sitting up straight in his chair. “Yes, I’m fairly sure I can tell when I inject myself with heroin, the effects are hard to miss.”

“All right.” John holds his hands up. His pulse pounds, quick, tiny beats in his chest. “Fine. I believe you.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, pulling up his knees on the chair. “Good.”

“Okay.”

Everything seems to breathe around them: the curtains, the dim, orange light from the lamp at Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’ll just -- go, then,” John says.

“You didn’t say why you’d come.”

“No,” John says, taking a step back. “No, I didn’t.”

* * *

John has discovered something. What, precisely, Sherlock’s not sure. He reviews all available data, which unfortunately isn’t much -- an erratic phone call, an even more erratic visit. John seemed both off-kilter and strangely calm, his eyes alight in a way Sherlock hasn’t seen in a long time. The sight should have thrilled Sherlock: it’s the John he knows, the John who lives and breathes to follow him into dark alleys with a gun tucked at his side. Only Sherlock can’t see what’s triggered this, why this John should suddenly be here, and not the grey, glassy-eyed John who came to visit a few days ago.

John looks, for all appearances, as if he’s on a case. But for once -- for the first time? -- Sherlock isn’t the catalyst.

This all points to Mary; any idiot would come to that conclusion. Has John discovered something? Sherlock grapples for his phone.

_Surveillance on the Watson place. Now. SH_

_You know we maintain it as a matter of course. MH_

_I need footage from this morning. SH_

_What’s happened? MH_

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He feels his fingers come together beneath his chin, tiny points of contact. His phone rings.

“Nothing,” Mycroft says. “No cause for alarm.”

“I’m not _alarmed_ ,” Sherlock snarls. “Just tell me who’s been there.”

“John and Mary left for work at the usual time.”

“Excellent intelligence work. Truly high quality.”

Mycroft, ignoring this, pauses for a moment. “Ah -- John came home this morning.”

“He came home. Why?”

“Well, I don’t see that he turned to the camera and delivered a monologue, Sherlock. He was home for precisely forty-three minutes. He left again just before eleven. And then he came to you.” Mycroft clears his throat. “Perhaps something is amiss.”

These days, Mycroft doesn’t bother apologising for keeping Baker Street on surveillance. They both find it tiresome.

“Of course something is amiss. Why do you think I’m talking to you?” Sherlock snaps, and hangs up the phone.

_You’re welcome. MH_

* * *

Something’s wrong, and John hasn’t come to him for help. John hasn’t come to Sherlock. It makes no sense.

Maybe this is some sort of strange payback. Delayed retribution for Sherlock’s two-year absence, but truly, Sherlock thought they’d moved past that by now.

Sherlock gropes for reasons John would keep something from him. None of the reasons are acceptable.

Maybe John doesn’t trust Sherlock anymore. Maybe he’s trying to protect Sherlock from -- whatever this is.

The thought of John excluding Sherlock from danger is so abhorrent that Sherlock smokes half a pack of fags in less than an hour and only stops when he has a coughing fit that causes him to dry-heave in the kitchen sink.

When he can breathe again, he tracks John’s mobile phone, a small blue point on the Greater London map that sits placidly in John’s medical office before stuttering to the Tube, and from there, back to John’s house.

Sherlock doesn’t understand how John Watson can still be a mystery when he’s poured his entire heart into solving him.


	16. 28 Weeks, 5 Days

The tattoo show will be on in an hour, but John doesn’t pour himself a drink. He finishes up the dishes, and Mary goes upstairs. She’d made a particularly good bolognese sauce tonight. Just another supper in the ordinary life of two ordinary citizens.

In the dark, their windows reflect the sitting room, mirror images on every pane. It feels as if John’s been watching the reflections all along, and at last he’s finally aware of the street outside, the identical little houses cozied up next to their own. The shrouded map of the suburb that stretches out behind their closed front door.

His shoulders have relaxed, and his leg feels fine. His hands don’t shake at all. He walks up the stairs, opens the baby gate, and doesn’t bother locking it behind him.

Mary looks up at him, the light from the telly falling across her face in yellow-white shadows. Under the quilt, her belly rises up, her knees propped on a nest of pillows.

“Hey, love,” she says, all kindness and surprise, and the surprise only makes John’s gut twist at how wrong this has become.

“Hi,” he says, and before the syllable’s even escaped, Mary sits up straighter. Her eyes sharpen in the precise way John’s tried to ignore, a way that somehow justifies John’s search of the house.

“Why don’t you tell me who you really are,” John says.

Mary’s eyes widen. She takes this in with the frightening, beautiful poise of someone who’s accustomed to shocking events.

“All right,” she says.

John nods. He feels the corners of his eyes begin to sting, and he blinks hard, looking down.

* * *

“I guess I -- need to know what you want to do,” Mary says haltingly. Her hands have come up to cradle her belly. Tears track a shiny path down her mottled cheeks.

John’s heart wants to wrench free from his chest at the sight of her. His wife. His breathtaking assassin of a wife.

“You know I love you,” he says.

Mary swipes at her nose. “Yeah.”

Noise from the telly blares on and off in the background.

“I guess I should take some time.”

“You should.” She looks up at him, mouth set in a sad, resigned line, and nods toward the door. “I think your show’s on soon, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Gonna miss it.”

* * *

At this hour almost no one’s in the Tube station. When John finally surfaces near Regent’s Park, frost glitters on the grass, and his breath comes out in short, white puffs. A freakish cold snap for late autumn, and he’s not prepared for it. Wind bites through his thin jacket and he fumbles with the lock at Baker Street, fingers clumsy with the chill.

The sitting room is freezing. Sherlock’s left the window cracked, and an empty grate yawns in the fireplace. John circles back from Sherlock’s bedroom to the sitting room: both unoccupied. He jogs up the stairs to his room and finds it even colder, with a musty, stale smell. Sherlock isn’t home.

A quiet sort of panic seeps into John’s gut, inexplicable, given the fact that he felt far less panic confronting his assassin wife. It’s not as if it’s particularly abnormal for Sherlock to be out at this hour. John should just shake out the sheets in his old room upstairs, start up the heater, get some rest to clear his head.

But he needs Sherlock. God, he needs him. As much as he likes to think of himself as an independent, capable individual, he has never needed another human as badly as he needs Sherlock right now. Urgency wraps itself around him and squeezes tight until he finds himself in the sitting room again, turning on lamps and casting about for clues.

 _Where are you?_   he texts, after a moment. His phone remains silent. He stares at it, willing it to blink to life. When it doesn’t, he begins to pace, and calls Sherlock instead.

A distinct note of music sounds from somewhere near the window. John overturns books and papers to find Sherlock’s phone, still in the flat, playing a wistful scrap of violin. John’s favourite.

Urgency gives way to emergency. John presses his thumb against the sensor -- it’s still keyed to his fingerprint, thank God -- and the phone springs to life. Two text messages: One, the usual sort from Lestrade:  _Need you at NSL tomorrow morning._ The next text message is from someone named Wiggins.

 _You’re on at eleven_ , it says. _Plenty of money riding on it. He’s a brute._

Sherlock hadn’t replied to Lestrade, but he’d replied to this one.

_I’ll be there. SH_

John doesn’t hesitate. He swipes through to Wiggins’ contact screen and calls.

“What the hell?” says a cigarette-wrecked voice. “I just saw you walk past. Get to the bloody ring.”

It feels as if John has been waking up again and again, like he’s been jolting into consciousness continuously for the past few days. He thinks of Sherlock’s hidden bruises and wakes up one more time.

“You’re going to answer my questions right now, and you’d better not lie, or I’m going to fucking kill you,” John says. “Are we clear?”

Wiggins, whoever the hell he is, isn’t stupid. “Yessir.”

* * *

John hears the place before he sees it. Six or seven enormous men linger on the kerb in front of an derelict house in a part of Southeast London totally unknown to John. Behind them, the unlit house buzzes with muffled noise. Thankfully, he’s remembered his gun -- still in its usual drawer at Baker Street -- and now the reassuring weight of the Sig in his waistband propels John forward. Although they stare at him uncomfortably, the men part to let John walk toward the house.

He opens the back gate and takes only a few steps before a tidal roar engulfs him. John hurries forward into a press of bodies, sweaty, drunk, mostly male. He catches a few elbows and pissed-off shoves before he breaks his way through the crowd and collides with a waist-high wall that’s sharp and prickly against his jeans.

Hay bales barricade a dusty open space lit with floodlights. Inside, two men are pounding at each other with tape-wrapped fists, heads down, bare to the waist. One of them is as broad as a bus, a thick slab of human flesh with arms as big around as each of John’s legs. John can only see the back of his neck, his buzz-cut head bent beneath the other man’s flurry of attacks.

The other man’s frame is as familiar as it is alien. Long limbs and longer hands, milk-pale skin corded with an unexpected layer of muscle. Sherlock ducks, hands up, and avoids a punch with a move so swift John forgets to breathe. Sweat coats his torso in a slick sheen, blood smeared down his ribs like warpaint. For a half-second, Sherlock lowers his fists, and his face is utterly devoid of emotion.

John knows that look. It’s the look he saw on his father’s face every night, a whisky-blank stare without the whisky. It’s the look of someone who doesn’t much care what happens next.

Sherlock’s stance shifts, telegraphing a right hook, but he feints and goes left instead, landing a heavy blow on the giant’s ear. This is all Sherlock has against a man like this -- speed, trickery -- because if they go toe to toe, this other man will surely crush Sherlock in seconds.

The behemoth staggers, but John’s stomach lurches -- Sherlock’s ploy didn’t work, and his opponent is far quicker than a huge man should be. With a sickening rush the man drives a fist into Sherlock’s exposed jaw. Sherlock crumples to the ground.

John can’t move. The crowd heaves on either side of him, shoving him roughly into the hay bales as Sherlock’s giant adversary turns and raises a fist. “MAGNUS!” a voice hollers, and a chant erupts: _MAG-NUS. MAG-NUS._

Sound yawns into slow-motion as lights flare across John’s vision. The world spins down to a single point. Too late: John is too late. He stayed away, drank himself to sleep. And now he’s waking up too late.

Sherlock doesn’t move. His body curls on the ground, dirt-smeared, blood tattooed across his bare back. In black shorts and lace-up trainers, he’s the mortal, human shell that fell from St Barts.

“SHERLOCK!”

John hears himself scream. Time stutters and starts up again.

Sherlock raises his head and spits blood onto the hay-strewn floor.

Every instinct in John’s body explodes at once. Adrenaline empties into his veins. He lunges forward, then stops himself. He can’t barge into the ring, he _can’t_ \-- can he?

Against all odds, Sherlock climbs to his feet. Then again, Sherlock’s never really been a fan of odds.

The crowd goes berserk.

Sherlock’s lip is bleeding freely, his shoulders hunched, arms held at odd angles. He straightens, inch by inch, as Magnus turns back to him. When, at last, he raises his head, his eyes are narrowed in heart-stopping focus. His right knuckle, wrapped in bloody tape, gives a slight twitch.

No sooner has his opponent turned than Sherlock’s fist flies forward, an insane rocket of a punch. Magnus staggers once, twice. And then he crumples to his knees, and falls.

And stays.

A tattooed, barrel-chested man rushes from the corner of the ring and thrusts Sherlock’s hand into the air. Sherlock winces visibly and spits more blood. He barely acknowledges the tattooed man, who wants nothing more than to pump his hand in congratulations. Instead, his eyes scan the crowd until they find John.

They stare at each other, the crowd thundering around them. Sherlock drops the tattooed man’s hand, takes a step forward, watching John, and drops his head as if he’s waiting for another punch.

“Jesus,” John stutters, and vaults over the hay bales.

* * *

John’s arms wrap around him, tight like shock. Sherlock could be dying. This might very well be what he’d imagine, if he were dying.

The pain shooting through Sherlock’s jaw doesn’t feel like death. John’s rough canvas coat against his burning skin, also not death-like. Sherlock drops his head to John’s and inhales, and a staggering, unknown feeling nearly takes his weakened knees out from under him. John’s hands clutch tighter, and Sherlock’s arms inexplicably react. He pulls John closer, taped hands gripping the back of John’s jacket.

The world fades in and out of focus, expanding and contracting. A map asserts itself: timelines, anatomy, the sequence of punches.

Sherlock ignores it. He has no idea how he’s gotten here.

* * *

“Next fight’s up,” someone says at John’s shoulder. “Clear out, Sig. You done well.”

John’s arms unwind, but Sherlock stays close. The crowd’s still far too loud to hear much of anything else. Medics attend to the heap of heaving flesh on the far side of the ring: Magnus is conscious, groaning.

The tattooed man nudges Sherlock’s other side. “Give ‘em a wave. Christ, you all right?”

Sherlock nods, lifts an arm, and waves it noncommittally, turning by degrees to face the crowd on all sides.

“Victory,” the tattooed man bellows, “Once again, the skinny bastard. SIGERSON!”

The crowd roars, and this time, their noise settles into a recognizable chant: _SIG. SIG. SIG._

“C’mon now,” the man says, and hustles them to the corner of the ring. Sherlock’s hand drifts to John’s shoulder as they climb over the hay bales, and the barrel-chested man parts a path for them through the crowd, all of whom want to smack some exposed part of Sherlock and shout happy profanities in his direction.

Back in the house the tattooed man steers Sherlock to a small room cluttered with papers and enough first aid supplies to stock the entire NHS. He points to a bench, and Sherlock sits.

“Who the hell is this?” the man says, rifling through a drawer in the room’s single, messy desk.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock says, with a slight slur to his words.

“Christ,” John says, snapping back to himself. “Sherlock. Let me see your mouth. Are your teeth --”

“Fine.” Sherlock waves a hand. “Nothing loose.”

“Nothing _missing?_ ” John cups Sherlock’s chin in his hand and tips Sherlock’s face up.

“No,” Sherlock says, with enough irritation that John’s pounding pulse fractionally relaxes.

“Let me check your eyes --” the man says, slamming a drawer and holding up a tiny, pen-shaped torch.

“Let me,” John interrupts.

“S’okay, Wiggins --” Sherlock begins, letting John’s fingers wander over his jaw, feel the tight muscles at the juncture of his neck.

“-- I’m his doctor,” John says, finishing the familiar sentence.

Under his hands, John feels Sherlock smile.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock leans against the back seat of a cab in a zipped-up hoodie and track pants. Once satisfied that Sherlock hadn’t sustained lasting damage, Wiggins, all smiles, had forced a wad of cash into his hand and attempted to schedule him for next week. John’s response wasn’t particularly friendly, and Sherlock had cut them off before John started the second brawl of the evening.

Sherlock, sitting unnecessarily close, smells of dried sweat and blood.

“Sig?” John says.

“Sigerson. Just an alias.”

“They call you Sig.”

“Mmm.”

John feels the weight of his gun in his coat pocket, and says nothing.

* * *

Back at Baker Street Sherlock slumps into the shower without a word. John starts a fire in the asinine cold of the flat, because of course Sherlock wouldn’t think to keep the furnace going. It’s some godawful hour after midnight.

Mary is home now, asleep under blue patterned sheets. Tomorrow morning she’ll wake up and turn on the kettle, and John won’t be there. She will be pregnant, and John won’t be there.

Sherlock’s bathroom door opens, closes. A few minutes later Sherlock wanders into the sitting room in pyjamas and his crimson dressing gown. His jaw has begun to swell on one side, and the outer edge of his eyelid looks puffy. Of course, that’s just in addition to his collection of fading bruises that John should’ve noticed. And investigated. But then, John hasn’t been in the habit of noticing much, until recently.

“I made tea,” John says, nodding toward the table.

Sherlock settles gingerly into his chair. “Thank you.”

“We should get some ice on your jaw.”

“In a bit.”

Silence falls, but it’s not the oppressive, frightening kind that recently haunted John in Sherlock’s presence. It’s just the normal kind. The John-and-Sherlock kind.

Because John understands the reason for the empty space between them, now. Sherlock had known about Mary -- of course he’d known. He’d held it close, kept John’s life cocooned in its gauzy veil. He’d given John all the space he could, because he thought John _wanted_ that life. But the knowledge must have been agonising. Agonising enough that Sherlock felt like punching things.

Of course, only Sherlock would find a way to actually _do_ that.

The very idea should send John into a white-hot rage, because _Christ_. The thought of what could’ve happened to Sherlock -- one wrong blow to the head, that beautiful brain damaged -- sends a nauseous wave up the back of John’s throat. And Sherlock risking his life after faking his death for two years is like a cherry on top of a really fucking horrendous cake. It’s more than any sane person should have to endure.

John isn’t quite sane, however.

He wants to be angry, but it’s just not possible. Sherlock went out and nearly got himself killed in a boxing ring for months on end, it was a crazy, idiotic thing to do, a reckless death wish of a thing, and John would never, ever have forgiven him if he’d managed to actually die, and -- John _gets_ it. He gets it completely.

As soon as John entered that ring he’d known that if he’d discovered a way to put down his goddamn glass and tape up his fists instead, he’d have been there too. He’d have been right in the middle of that fucking ring just like Sherlock, risking his life so he could feel something other than the buzz of whisky, something other than the dull horror of things he’d rather not face. He and Sherlock are just the same. It’s what they do.

But mostly, he can’t be angry because this is his fault.

“I need to sleep,” John says eventually.

Sherlock, thumbing through his phone’s emails with an unfocused stare, nods.

“I thought I’d stay here,” John adds. “If that’s okay.”

Sherlock looks up, and they are just as they once were, in perfect understanding. The relief of it is so heady and sweet that John’s eyes sting.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, and it’s sharp, and dismissive, and wonderfully normal.

“I talked to Mary,” John blurts. “I -- found out. What she is.”

The silence, this time, resonates like a shockwave.

John barrels on, staring at his hands. “It’s -- it’s my fault. I was an idiot. You knew all along. You didn’t have to say anything -- I mean, you don’t have to say anything now.” He swallows, and glances up. “It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention for a long time. There were a lot of things I should’ve noticed.”

Sherlock looks as if he’s standing on the sidelines of an explosion. Like he did when the mine went off in Dewar’s Hollow.

“No,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “I should’ve done something.”

“You _did_ do something. You did the only thing you could’ve done.”

“John.”

“It was me, Sherlock.” John takes a breath. “I wasn’t looking. You always tell me -- I didn’t _see_.”

“I wasn’t _there_ to tell you,” Sherlock says bitterly. “At first.”

The fire pops, and John sinks deeper into his chair. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to move, or even think. But somehow, things are better already.

“It’s all right,” John says. “I’m never leaving again.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John hears him settle into his own chair, stretch his long legs toward the fire.

John hears the click of a teacup, the rustling of papers. He doesn’t open his eyes again until morning.

* * *

John snores quietly in his chair. Since his wedding, John seems to have developed a knack for sleeping in armchairs.

Sherlock doesn’t feel like sleeping. Instead, he watches the rise and fall of John’s warm, plaid button-down shirt.

“Neither am I,” Sherlock murmurs.

 


	17. 28 Weeks, 6 Days

A lilting strain of violin winds its way around John’s consciousness until he wakes. The melody rocks like the sea, and aches, but it’s a good kind of ache. John sits up, stretching as his neck and shoulders protest, and Sherlock keeps playing.

They don’t say much as the morning slips by. John makes coffee and toast, just like always; Sherlock accepts it and ignores John in favour of his laptop. Morning presses into afternoon, winter light sliding lower on the curtains. John looks up from an old spy novel (his book, still in Sherlock’s shelf) and meets Sherlock’s gaze.

“I should, um. Go out for a bit.”

Sherlock nods, back in his chair once more. It’s startling how quickly they’ve snapped back to their shared wavelength, after John thought that wavelength had been warped beyond recognition.

“You’re going to see her.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

John sighs. “I don’t know.” He feels his jaw tighten. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Sherlock gives him a soft, humourless smile. “I don’t think anyone ever imagines this sort of thing.”

“Look at my life. _I_ should’ve imagined it.”

“You lack imagination entirely, John, don’t blame yourself.”

John scowls, but can’t muster any true indignation. “Stop telling me I’m blameless.” He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I should go.”

“No need.”

John only has time to blink before he hears footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock stands, winces visibly, and buttons his suit jacket. “Lestrade wanted to see me, I think? Hello, Mary.”

John struggles to his feet. Mary stands in the doorway in her red coat, cool and collected. She flashes Sherlock a sunny smile.

“Hi, Sherlock. Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Never.” Sherlock takes his coat from the door hook, shrugging it on, then bends to kiss both of her cheeks. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m looking huge, but thanks.” She watches him knot his scarf. “You’re looking -- injured.”

Gravity settles into the room, a weight of expectation. Truth, about to be spilled.

“Made a miscalculation,” Sherlock says.

Mary nods as if this is all perfectly normal, a tableau of domesticity: Sherlock, bruised and limping, excusing himself so she and John can discuss the state of their marriage.

“Happens to all of us,” Mary says, catching John’s eye.

John swallows. His hand closes on the back of his armchair.

“Back in two hours, John.” Sherlock pats the pocket with his mobile in it and closes the door.

A quiet part of John’s brain notes that Sherlock has never, in the history of their friendship, given John an estimated time for his return, much less hinted that John should call him if needed. John turns the knowledge over like a two-pound piece he’s found on the kerb. A flare of warmth kindles within him, and he pulls out Sherlock’s desk chair.

“Why don’t you sit,” he says to Mary. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

* * *

Maybe it started with the television. But maybe, in the end, it really didn’t.

Maybe they didn’t really know each other to begin with.

“You don’t have to come back,” Mary says. A tear drags a smudge of mascara toward her cheek.

“Look,” John begins, and he can’t figure out how to say what he wants to say -- that it’s not the assassin thing, really. Because that sounds insane. _Mary, I don’t mind that you’re an assassin, although, you know, you should be up-front about stuff like that. I do mind that we need two televisions._

Mary cuts in. “I should’ve told you, that first night we went out. I should’ve said something. But I didn’t know if I could trust you, I didn’t know it would go as far as it did --”

“I -- wait, Mary. That’s not it.”

Mary’s brow knits in confusion. “What?”

“Your -- job. That’s not entirely it.”

“I lied to you.” Mary’s eyes, grave and deadly serious.

“Yeah, I know, I --” John clears his throat, finds his words are still stuck somewhere in it.

Mary waits with the quiet calm of someone accustomed to difficult conversations. 

John can hardly stand it. He takes a breath, plunges forward.

“This, the two of us, I -- I wanted it to be right. I wanted us to be right, from the beginning. I was in a bad place, and you came along, and I knew you could bring me out of it. And you _did_ bring me out, you did, but I was just --” His voice falters. “I was just seeing what I wanted to see. Because you turned my life around, and so I wanted a life with you.”

“I wanted a life with you too,” Mary says. “We could still _have_ that life.”

“Do you really want this, though?” John says quietly. “What we have?”

Mary’s hesitation, a split-second of doubt behind her wide eyes, feels like a punch, even though John knew it was coming.

“It will get better,” she says hastily. “Marriages take work. We could work on it.”

“Could we, though?”

John watches her, straight and tense in her chair: Mary, calm as always, the promise of tears quivering near the corner of her mouth.

He thinks about kissing those tears away. They could go home, make supper -- no, order takeaway, it’s been an ordeal -- and vow to start over, and John could sleep in the bed upstairs and lavish attention on his beautiful wife. And soon their daughter will be here. The baby might fix everything, bring them together, blow away their imperfections. New baby, new life, everything so very nearly what John’s always wanted.

_Is_ it what John’s always wanted?

John never knew what his father wanted. That was the trouble; no one knew. They could only tell his father didn’t want -- them.

John’s father lived his life with an unshakable sense of duty that was also devoid of genuine pleasure. It wasn’t as if he never seemed happy -- he smiled, he thumped John on the back, he told John he was proud. But when he said it, there was something missing behind his eyes, something that had been driven out long ago. Maybe he never even knew it was gone.

John thinks of his first house, of that long bowling alley of a yard. A strip of green between dull stone buildings, a scrap of sky up above, all locked away on one particular sunny September day. Not John’s anymore.

And he thinks about his own child.

“I love you,” he says, “but I don’t love our life together, Mary. God, I _want_ to love it. I thought I could love it, I -- I was wrong. And I can’t have our child be a part of that. I don’t want to be that example, two people pretending it’s all fine. She shouldn’t have that example. I don’t want her to learn to pretend. I want her to learn to be happy.”

Mary bites her lip, then looks away.

“And, um. The assassin thing, not telling me, that wasn’t good,” John adds. “I mean, that’s also -- a bit of it.”

“Of course,” Mary says quickly, nodding and mopping her eyes. “Not good, I got that.”

“You have to know I forgive you for not telling me,” John says. “I do. It’s just --”

“It’s not the only problem,” Mary finishes.

“No.”

Mary takes a breath, shakes her head. “I love you too,” she says. “I do. I’ve spent so much of my life not feeling safe, and with you -- I finally do. But now that I feel that way, I -- I just don’t feel like _myself_ anymore. Sometimes it seems like I got someone else’s life in a mix-up, and some man in a suit’s going to knock on our door and inform me there’s been a mistake.”

John can’t help a small smile. “Did you save the original packaging?”

Mary laughs, still half-crying. “Tossed it in the bin.” She smiles at him. “Thought I was keeping you forever.”

It’s John’s turn to mop at his eyes. He takes a deep breath. This can’t be happening, and yet it makes more sense than most of the things that have happened in John’s life.

“I don’t understand how two people can both -- want something to work, _so much_ , and yet it just -- doesn’t,” Mary says.

John nods. “I know.”

They sit quietly for a moment. Somehow, just like the television, something’s been decided without John knowing exactly when. He can’t pinpoint it, but sometime in the past few minutes, his marriage has come to an end.

The bottom drops out of his stomach.

Mary swallows and puts a self-conscious hand on her belly. “I think we need to figure out what happens next.”

“Yeah.” John’s stomach won’t stop plummeting. “Yeah, we do.”

* * *

_They’ve done it. MH_

_Be more specific. Your enjoyment of cryptical hints is infantile. SH_

_Spare us both. You know what’s happened. MH_

Sherlock pushes back his stool and switches off the high-powered laboratory microscope. Sorrow and relief battle for control of his faculties, and the ensuing stalemate sidelines his ability to think. Mycroft is meddling just to watch Sherlock suffer, surely.

_Is John all right? SH_

_He’s at Baker Street. Mary’s gone home. MH_

_You are utterly overinvolved. SH_

_Have a pleasant day, then. MH_

Sherlock’s sore jawbone twinges, and unexpectedly, guilt overwhelms him.

_Mycroft. Thank you. SH_


	18. 29 Weeks

Sherlock specialises in change, in flux, in the minute shifts in matter visible only in a laboratory. His eye is trained to detect the most microscopic of changes, and yet when life rattles and rearranges itself, he is shockingly unprepared.

John leaves for work in the morning and comes home in the evening with two suitcases, heavy enough that he drags them up the stairs one by one. The resulting thumps startle Sherlock out of a deep reflection on the distance a bullet can travel through a solid oak door.

“Is this all right?” John asks, for what seems like the hundredth time in twenty-four hours. He’s slightly hoarse, congested: too much talking, even more tears.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, because if he says anything else, it will betray the joy that’s blossoming in his chest at the sight of John’s suitcase.

“You know I fail at that on a regular basis,” John replies, and drags the first bag up to his room.

* * *

John’s room upstairs has been recently dusted, the sheets changed, the window cracked open in precisely the way he likes it. He hates sleeping in a stuffy room, even in this freezing weather; Sherlock knows it. Mrs Hudson too.

He sets up his phone charger just as it once was, unpacks a few shirts into the bureau, checks to see what’s left in his closet. Muscle memory kicks in, and as he plugs in his phone and gets into bed, it could be two years ago just as easily as today.

Time wobbles around him, tiny details flooding back: the frayed corner of his old duvet, the particular way his lamp clicks when he turns it off, the muffled cocktail of late-night noise from the street below. _Home._

It feels like a reunion. He closes his eyes, his senses full of every stupid, familiar thing he never noticed before, and lets himself love all of it.

  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little breather of a chapter. Posting may slow down a bit in the next few weeks due to the summer transition, but don't worry, more is on the way. <3 Mars


	19. 29 Weeks, 3 Days

Everything is back to normal.

Is it? Was their life ever normal? John hates normality. Sherlock also hates it. And yet, the fragile stability they inhabit does seem to resemble it, from some angles.

They’ve fallen back into orbit, two planets tracking paths around each other, equal parts silence and easy conversation. Thus far, John has spent his time reading the paper, tapping at his laptop, taking calls from work. Sherlock has wrung Mendelssohn from his violin, fiddled with a mold experiment, and pretended to act bored.

He is not bored. He does not have a case, and yet he has never been less bored in his life. He is spinning his wheels, nerves bottled tightly in the guise of languid nonchalance. John in Baker Street is a precious thing, so different from the recent Baker Street without John in it. Perhaps if Sherlock doesn’t move, if he stays very still, he will never disturb the peace of this place, the good Baker Street. The _right_ Baker Street.

Lestrade has been bothering him with every last body found in the city of London, and for the first time, Sherlock wants none of it. All he wants is this puttering, everyday routine. He wants to dissect it, absorb it into his blood so that he can make sure he will never be without it again.

But Sherlock can sense that their easy peace will soon become less easy. John’s smiles are warm, genuine, but there is tension in the set of his jaw. Sherlock knows that look. He knows that feeling, the sort of itch that leads to bullets in the wall, taped-up fists, the ache of bruises lingering in Sherlock’s body even now. _John_ needs a case.

Sherlock vows to take the next one of Lestrade’s calls, however inane the crime, but Lestrade -- never one to be skilled with timing -- doesn’t call.

Mycroft does.

Stolen document, particularly sensitive high-profile client who may or may not live in Downing Street. Sherlock’s assistance has been -- to put it lightly -- “requested.”

Mycroft knows John’s exact state of mind without having set foot in their flat. He’s probably even timed this particular call for this moment. Sherlock spends a good five minutes seething at his brother until the details of the case actually permeate his anger. It’s a good one, an eight at least. Mycroft knows he won’t say no right now. Damn it.

They hurry down the stairs, Sherlock listing bits of information, point after point, punctuated by John’s nods and grunts of affirmation and occasional exclamations of _Wait! Hang on._

It’s been such a long time since they’ve done this, really properly _done_ this, dashed out the door together. As they hurry outside, John’s questions steer Sherlock’s train of thought, shaping Sherlock’s wild mess of ideas into coherence. By the time they climb into a taxi, Sherlock’s theories (six, at the moment) are clear and sorted.

“Why are you smiling?” John asks, the corner of his mouth tilting as the cab pulls away.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You bloody well are.” John nudges Sherlock with his shoulder. “Try to contain yourself when we get there? The Prime Minister might not appreciate being the source of your personal happiness.”

“He’s not,” Sherlock says, quite by accident.

John looks out the window and tries not to grin, and Sherlock’s heart nearly bursts.

* * *

Thank God, thank _God_ they’ve got a case, because all it takes is one bright look from Sherlock and John’s nerves chime with pure happiness. This is what he’s supposed to be doing: getting someone else to cover his shift at work so he can run all over London in the wake of his mad best friend.

Oh, and stopping by Downing Street to chat with the Prime Minister. Or, to be more precise, apologise to the Prime Minister on Sherlock’s behalf.

John feels himself fall into the case, needing it desperately, needing to disappear. In a day or two he’ll go back to Mary’s, deal with all the unravelled ends he needs to resolve. But for now, he needs a distraction, and he doesn’t much care what it says about his emotional health that he’d rather chase down the government’s missing paperwork than deal with his pregnant wife.

Although maybe it’s not a bad way to cope, all things considered. There’s no guidebook for this, no set of instructions for how to proceed when your wife fails to tell you she was once an assassin.

John wonders if there’s a reality show for his situation, a panel of experts on iTV who could fix his ridiculous life: _Well, he’s got a failed marriage, a baby coming, wife’s actually a spy, but we can ink right over that, you’ll never know it was there. Cover it up with this garish wallpaper -- you know the pattern. It fixes everything. People make mistakes, you know?_

For now, though, Sherlock’s next to him in a cab, scrolling through texts as they inch toward Whitehall to interview a suspect. They’ve got a bag of Pret sandwiches on the seat between them, which John keeps shoving in Sherlock’s direction, and suddenly all of it -- the cab, the halted traffic, the taste of egg and cress, Sherlock rolling his eyes and taking a bite -- all of it is just exactly perfect.


	20. 30 Weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Please heed the tags. This chapter contains a minor pregnancy-related medical situation.

They hammer against dead ends, cover half of London on foot, nearly talk themselves hoarse. Days fill up with secret meetings, furtive words exchanged under Jubilee Bridge with Sherlock’s network of spies. Sherlock’s bruises fade, but still the stolen document doesn’t turn up. And then, at last: a suspect named Eduardo Lucas can’t come to 221B for an interview. It just so happens he’s recently been murdered.

They’re standing in Mr Lucas’ sitting room, on his extremely posh and bloodstained rug, when John’s phone rings. The noise jolts John out of his case-induced fugue state, and guilt spikes in his gut. He’s been entirely immersed, living life as if he’d veered off on an alternate timeline. He hasn’t visited Mary at all, and it’s been days. They’ve barely even texted. _Jesus._

“Hey,” John says, hurrying over to the corner of the sitting room, feeling Sherlock’s eyes follow him. “You okay?”

“I think so,” Mary says, an unexpected note of anxiety in her voice. Mary, unflappable Mary.

John’s heart speeds up. “What is it? Is it the baby?”

“I don’t want you to worry, but I’m going to the hospital. Bit of -- spotting, today. Just going to play it safe.”

“Right. Of course, okay. I’ll be right there.”

John’s mind leaps ahead: 30 weeks, a high chance of survival. His heart won’t stop pounding. Christ. He could have a baby tonight. He could have a baby _any minute_ , and he’s studying goddamn bloodstains on a rug. Truly, he’s set a new gold standard in avoidance tactics.

“I’m coming into London, to the new doctor. Where are you?”

Oh God. Right. Mary wants to switch hospitals, since John’s in London now. John can barely think.

“Um. Whitehall. You shouldn’t --”

“I’m in a cab, I’m not taking the train,” she says, knowing exactly how John’s mind works, because of course she does -- she married him. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing. I just wanted to let you know. You don’t have to come, if you’re busy.”

“I’m not busy.”

“You’re on a case. It’s fine, John. I’ll be fine. I’ll call again if there’s anything to worry about.”

“I’m coming,” John tells her, and hangs up.

He turns around to see Sherlock staring at him, no longer absorbed in the rug’s fibres or the lack of corresponding stain on the parquet floor -- just staring at him with wide eyes, magnifying glass still in hand.

“I -- I have to go,” John says, guilt swelling into a tidal force, deep enough that he’s not sure what its source might be. He’s not with Mary. He has to leave Sherlock.

Sherlock walks toward him, bloodstain forgotten. “Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. Will you be --”

“Go,” Sherlock urges, concern lining his face. “Go now.”

* * *

“Well, let’s see here,” their new doctor says, moving the wand over Mary’s bare stomach. Dr Bellinger actually looks a bit like Sally Donovan, and has a similar sort of disarming competence, which John hugely appreciates at the moment. The room buzzes with static, and then, miraculously, the reassuring slush-whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat.

“Baby seems fine,” Dr Bellinger says, after a moment. “You were right to check, but the amount of blood lost was so small that it’s not likely to be an issue with the placenta. All the same, we’ll get you an ultrasound this afternoon. I’ll go write the request. Back in a moment.”

Mary arranges the hospital-issue sheet over her legs and takes a breath as the exam room door clicks shut.

John fights down the worry banging in his chest as if he’s wrestling a criminal into handcuffs. “I’m sleeping at your place tonight,” he manages. “No arguments.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m a trained nurse. I was just being careful. I’m completely fine. We’re at least two months from delivering, probably more.”

John feels his jaw clench. Stupid, he’s been so _stupid_ , they should think about the baby first, that’s the only thing that matters -- “We can deal with whatever’s going on with us after the baby arrives.”

“John.”

John laughs, incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re fighting me on this. I was in the house a week ago. You didn’t seem particularly keen for me to leave.”

“And I’m telling you, I’m fine. Don’t worry. It’s better if you stay at Baker Street.”

“No. No, this is a mistake, having me gone.”

“It’s not,” Mary shoots back. “It’s not a mistake.”

John swallows.

Mary blanches. “John. What I mean, is --”

John tries to bring his hammering pulse under control. “I heard you.”

Mary’s eyes darken with resignation. “I’m sorry, John. I am.”

John, in his chair next to the exam table, watches the blank screen of the room’s ultrasound equipment. Mary watches him.

“It’s just -- it’s. It’s not a great thing to hear,” he says at last.

Mary sits up straighter, puts a hand over his. Her fingertips are cold. “Well. It’s not what I wanted to tell you, particularly.” She squeezes his hand. “But I thought about everything you said. I’d rather we didn't lie to each other anymore. Now that we’re not pretending, it just -- it’s such a bloody _relief_.”

It feels as if someone has picked John clean, left his bare bones exposed. It makes no rational sense that he should be angry at Mary now, that he should feel a pang of genuine hurt knowing that she might be better off without him. That he might be better off without her, even when they’re about to have a child together. But rationality is one of the bits of him that’s been stripped away at the moment.

“Okay,” he says. “Right.”

“You seem happier,” she says coaxingly. She releases his hand, pats it. “You look better already.”

John huffs a dry laugh. “I seem happier? Right now, in this room, I seem happier.”

“When you first came in. I could tell.”

“I was worried out of my mind about our baby, and I seemed happier to you?”

Mary shrugs. “A bit, yeah.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. That’s -- fantastic.”

“If it helps, I cried for two days.”

John looks up. Mary’s eyes glisten. His insides twist in response.

“Just two days? I’d have thought I’d be a three-day cry, at least.”

“Laura brought ice cream.”

John tuts. “Ruined the streak, did she.”

“I’ll bet Sherlock dragged you out within twenty-four hours.”

John folds his arms, smug. “Forty-eight.”

Mary’s eyes glint. “That long.”

“He got a call from the Prime Minister.”

“He _what?_ ”

“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you that.”

Mary laughs, but then sobers. “God, there’s nothing normal about this, is there?”

“Has there ever been anything normal about us?”

Mary pretends to consider this. “Not really.”

“I think that’s why I married you,” John says, feeling the odd, sinking sense of talking about this in the past tense. As if their marriage has already faded, a finite event.

He supposes it has. It just took a while before he noticed.

Mary sighs. “Me too.”

* * *

“Everything’s looking good,” Dr Bellinger says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Shall we leave this on for a moment? Let’s try to find you a profile. It's harder to get one at this stage, but maybe she'll cooperate.”

The ultrasound technician nods. Mary squeezes John’s hand. Despite everything, they'd reached for each other as soon as the technician had pushed back the sheet covering Mary’s belly.

The black, fuzzy screen swims with indecipherable noise, then settles. The image moves again, a strange, underwater motion, and then:

“There she is,” the doctor says. “Hold it right there.”

It’s been a while; their eighteen-week ultrasound is a blur in John’s mind, the bright little bean of a shape still printed in his wallet. Now, his breath catches as the curve of a face emerges from the dark screen. The unmistakable swoop of what might unfortunately be his nose.

“Your little girl,” the doctor says fondly.

Little girl. No one’s actually said that before. Not just a baby. Not just a logistical problem, a complication, a crisis. A little person. His little girl.

“Oh,” Mary says, and dabs at her eyes. “Oh, little love. Hello.”

“Wanted to say hi, did you?” John says, heart beating high in his throat. “Was that it?”

“Must have been,” Dr Bellinger says. “I don’t see any issues at all. Mum’s blood pressure is good, everything checks out just fine. All the same, you should take it easy for the next few days, but there’s no reason you can’t return to work tomorrow.” She nods at John. “I trust you’ll keep an eye, Dr Watson.”

John nods, barely hearing anything. Mary might be arranging a follow-up visit, but the chatter washes over him. He can only see the glowing lines of profile captured on the screen, the suggestion of a small, familiar face he’s never met. Sherlock would be _riveted_ , just from the miraculous science alone. John pulls out his phone and holds it up to the screen, takes a shot of the fuzzy image. Between the monitor and the phone’s distortion it’s impossible to tell what it is. He sends it anyway.

_Here she is._

The response is almost instant. _Oh. OH. SH_

_She’s okay. They’re saying Mary’s fine. The baby looks good._

“John?”

“Hang on, hang on.” John fumbles with his phone, but can’t stop looking at the ultrasound screen, now frozen in place as Mary sits up from the exam table.

“We’ll see her soon,” Mary’s saying, as John’s phone buzzes. The ultrasound screen goes dark and empty, like a missing piece.

* * *

In a nondescript alley in Whitehall, Sherlock pockets his mobile and slumps against the cold stone wall.

A tiny, fuzzy photo, black and grey, tiny bright points, one screen to another. The image is impossible to read, but the moment slams into Sherlock, an incandescent bulb of feeling that shatters in his chest. John Watson, in a hospital room, chose to send this picture. John, seeing the face of his child, thought of Sherlock. Reached for him across a city, two screens apart.

Sherlock spent years letting John go, letting distance settle between them. And in the short time John’s been back, really, genuinely _back_ in Baker Street, Sherlock can’t imagine how he ever let John go to begin with. Now, it seems impossible. It seems they could reach out and touch each other from any distance.

There is nothing Sherlock cannot contain within his mind, nothing he cannot break down into disparate parts and understand. But this -- he cannot contain this.

The recent memory of a John-less life has hollowed out a space in his psyche, a bitter reminder that Sherlock was willing to leave. That he let John go.

But this photo, this black-and-white blur, is the end. The saturation point. At last, a single grain of matter has caused everything to solidify, and now Sherlock cannot absorb any more of this particular feeling. Understanding sifts through him, swirling, no longer dissolved in a solution.

He is in love with John. Has always been in love with John. He will exist in all possible states of loving John, at all times, and continue to do so indefinitely. It’s like discovering an element: not invention, but identification.

Sherlock tamps down this knowledge with the end of his cigarette, but can’t seem to discard it quite as easily.

   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, wonderful readers... there might be another brief break in updates after this longer chapter. (I said this story would mostly be short chapters? Well...)  
> Thanks again for all of your feedback, I appreciate it so much! <3 Mars  
> Oh, and -- happy birthday, ACD!


	21. 30 Weeks, 1 Day

When they get back to the house, it's late, so Mary goes upstairs to sleep. She tells John -- quite sweetly -- to go home. John nods, assures her of his intentions to do so, and sleeps on the sofa instead. He can’t quite bring himself to doze off in his old chair again.

The next morning he wakes up to the sound of Mary’s feet on the stairs. He stands up as she walks into the sitting room and nearly crosses the room to kiss her before he remembers. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down. His clothes are badly wrinkled, and he feels itchy, unmoored, exhausted. He desperately needs a shower.

Not here, though.

“All right?” he asks, noting that Mary does, in fact, seem fine. Very pregnant, but otherwise fine.

“I think so,” she says, and steps forward to kiss him on the cheek. Like they’re friends. Like he’s someone in the receiving line at their wedding. John doesn’t understand how a tiny thing like this could be so awful, but somehow, it is.

“Good.”

She steps back, tilts her head with a slight smile. “You need a shower.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll -- be going. In a minute.”

“You can use the one here,” she offers.

“No, that’s fine. I just wanted to, um. Check up on you before I left.”

“Thanks.” A genuine smile, but a wall has gone up between them, pleasant and affable, but a barricade nonetheless. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a shift at work this morning.”

“You’re going to work?”

“I keep telling you, I’m fine.”

John sighs. “All right. Just don’t -- you know.”

“I work at a desk, John. Surrounded by medical professionals, should any problems arise.” She raises an eyebrow. “And I’ll see you there later, won’t I?”

“No, um.” No? John’s brain is apparently making decisions for him without consultation. “I’m taking another day off.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Susan.”

“Great. I, um. I’ll be over later. But -- only if you want.”

“I’ll text you.”

“Yeah. Or -- or call, that’s fine.”

“Don’t _worry,_ John.”

“All right. Well. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

* * *

Two things have become obvious: one, John needs to find another job, because he can’t keep taking time off to avoid his future ex-wife. _Ex-wife._ Jesus.

And two, he needs to be in Baker Street right now, for his health and sanity. Five minutes ago would have been preferable.

As it is, he pays a black cab another exorbitant amount to get back across town, and it’s still not nearly fast enough. He stumbles back up the stairs and into the sitting room, and it takes most of his restraint not to throw himself into his chair.

Sherlock, seated at the desk, doesn’t look up from his laptop. He’s wearing yesterday’s pyjamas and dressing gown; Mrs Hudson must have been up to visit, because two half-full cups of tea are at his elbow, along with an uneaten plate of biscuits.

“Lady Hilda Trelawney,” Sherlock says, eyes fixed straight ahead. “The European Secretary’s wife. Someone matching her description was seen near the crime scene. There was a bloodstain on the rug, but not on the floor underneath; the rug had clearly been moved before the scene was secure. We need to talk to her.”

A wave of gratitude weakens John’s knees. His life might be crumbling around him, but Sherlock is here, the same as ever, sharp and remote and halfway insane. And the only human on the planet John wants to see right now.

“Thank God for you,” John blurts, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

Sherlock’s head snaps up. “I --” he begins, clearly wrong-footed. “What did you say?”

John nearly backpedals. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. But his words hang in the air between them, and he’s tired of pretending. He’s had months of it.

“Thank God for you,” he repeats, with genuine sincerity, and eases into his armchair.

Sherlock stares at him with undisguised wonder. It’s a look of such startling vulnerability that John simply stares back, unable to speak.

They never talk about anything like this, what’s between them. John learned to stop examining it long ago. Once, John thought he could label it -- “best friend” seemed a decent shorthand. But now, looking at Sherlock, it seems thoroughly inadequate. It’s a bit like calling Westminster Abbey the local place of worship.

“Sorry,” he says, aware that this display of sentiment might well have shorted out their ability to communicate. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Lady -- who was it? Lady Hilda?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says absently. He waves a hand. “Not important. Are you all right?”

 _No_ , John wants to say. _No, I’m really not, Sherlock. I’m breaking up with a woman I loved enough to marry, and we’re about to have a kid any minute, and -- it’s like a bomb about to go off, it’s like having a countdown timer on my entire fucking life, and I have no idea how to manage it._

John doesn't say any of it. They have to focus.

He attempts to steer the conversation back on track. “What do you mean, it’s not important?”

“It’s a missing document. They’ve been waiting a week already.”

“A man is dead. And this is the _Prime Minister_ we’re working for. Are you feeling okay?”

“I already asked _you_ that.”

John hopes his shrug is convincing. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You got to see her. Your little girl.”

 _Little girl_. Sherlock has somehow picked up on this shift in John’s thinking: not a baby, but a _person_.

“Yeah. Yeah, ultrasounds aren’t perfect, but -- yeah.”

“And she’s all right.”

“As far as the doctor can tell.”

“Good.” Sherlock nods. “That’s good.”

And just like that, John can breathe again. Sherlock, whether intentionally or not, has honed in on the only thing John should really be thinking about right now.

“Yeah, it’s really good,” John says, and feels affection lift the corner of his mouth. “I think she’s got my nose, though.”

“With the right balance of features, it could be an asset.”

“Oh, thanks. Thanks for that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied things.”

The barest of smirks. “In no way did I imply that your nose is ridiculous.”

John sputters. “Just because not all of us are blessed with cheekbones and a perfect profile --”

“Sometimes ridiculous can be perfect,” Sherlock cuts in.

John opens his mouth, then closes it. Sherlock’s famous cheekbones have coloured a bit.

“I -- oh,” John manages.

Sherlock’s attention snaps back to his laptop. “Now. I believe we can catch Lady Hilda at home, if we get a cab within the next twenty minutes.”


	22. 30 Weeks, 2 Days

Sherlock does not ask Mycroft for help, on principle.

Mycroft is always right, which is unacceptable. Because of this, Sherlock would rather be tortured in Eastern Europe than ask his brother for help. (Although in reality, that particular experience was far worse than Sherlock could have expected.)

Mycroft has been consistently, maddeningly _right_ since Sherlock can remember. When Sherlock was only six, he made the mistake of telling Mycroft he was going to ask a classmate to sit with him at lunch.

“Oh, no, Sherlock,” Mycroft had said, voice cracking painfully with adolescence. Mycroft, home from school on holiday, had given Sherlock a kind-but-superior look. “That won’t go well. You aren’t like other children. We aren’t like anyone.”

Although he’d been only six at the time, Sherlock had taken offence. Surely Mycroft was wrong. Mycroft was spotty and ginger and podgy in a way that suggested he hadn’t yet had his growth spurt. If Mycroft was having trouble at school, it was all down to this unfortunate awkward phase. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have any problems.

Mycroft had been right, of course.

That was just the start of Mycroft being right. His streak has continued, nearly uninterrupted, for the past twenty years.

Mycroft’s unwavering correctness has often made Sherlock want to punch him, which happened not infrequently when they were young. Now that they’re grown and punching is no longer an option (damn the MI6 staff), Sherlock has learned to punch other things. Hence, Baritsu. Boxing. Mycroft may be smarter, and even taller, but Sherlock has always been stronger. It’s only thanks to Mycroft’s maddening superiority that Sherlock pursued athletics to begin with, desperate for any small victory, any way to distinguish himself. If he couldn’t best Mycroft in intelligence, at least he could win at something.

The drugs did help to set Sherlock apart, as well. Unfortunately.

Now it’s late in the afternoon and they’ve finished their case -- Lady Hilda stole the document, child’s play -- and he's just shooed John off to visit Mary after wrapping things up at Downing Street. Sherlock had hoped to drag out the case to keep John happy and distracted, but after Mary’s recent scare, it seemed a change in plan might be prudent.

John hadn’t been particularly pleased with Sherlock’s desire to rush through a meeting set up expressly for the Prime Minister to thank them, but John would recover. John expected this from Sherlock. As did the Prime Minister, to be honest.

Mycroft had been smug, having been right as usual. He’d known Sherlock would take this case, pedestrian though it was, to keep John occupied. Mycroft had taken advantage, and Sherlock had behaved just as predicted. Another feather in Mycroft’s cap. Sherlock hates him for it.

When Sherlock’s cab pulls up in front of the Diogenes club, Sherlock tips the driver a bit extra. A bit extra for the small satisfaction of knowing that Mycroft won’t have predicted this particular move. Even though the move itself will be excruciating.

Sherlock brushes his way past three or four staff members who attempt to intercept him and heads to the elevator that leads to his brother’s private office. He knows the keycode and is prepared for an argument, but the guard’s apparently not an idiot and gives Sherlock access with only a questioning look. It’s not as if Sherlock is in the habit of dropping by the Diogenes on a whim.

Mycroft sits alone at his desk, a shaft of sunlight piercing the otherwise dark and somber cell he likes to call an office. He is absorbed in his laptop and looks up sharply as Sherlock steps in. His expression slips from concentration to genuine surprise before he can get a handle on it. Good. Points to Sherlock, which he’ll need, as he’s about to skewer his own pride.

Sherlock takes a breath. “I need your help.”

Surely, gloating will now commence.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Did you hear me? Go ahead. I’m asking for help. Enjoy it.”

Mycroft does not look gleeful. Instead, he looks -- Sherlock isn’t sure. Sad, perhaps. When he speaks, there is a soft edge to his usually clipped inflection.

“What do you need?”

Sherlock feels the foundation of his world view shudder. He had only been prepared for _I told you so._ “Are you feeling all right?”

“I should be asking you that question.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sherlock.”

They’ve reached a point Sherlock knows well, the point at which it’s useless to talk. Mycroft has already read the situation in Sherlock’s hurried arrival, in the agitated way he’s twitching two fingers on his left hand. Sherlock can tell, because it’s Mycroft and they’ve been in a room together for over ten seconds. Speech is often secondary for the two of them. They can just watch each other and reach any desired level of understanding. Sherlock needs a favour, he hates asking for it; Mycroft will not only know this, but he’ll be able to discern Sherlock’s precise request. Far more efficient than wading through pleasantries.

But Mycroft doesn’t leap straight to the task at hand. Instead, he studies Sherlock once more.

“So. You know, then,” he says.

“What do I know?”

A put-upon sigh. “How you really feel about him. You’ve worked it out.”

“Stop being obtuse.”

“You _love_ him, Sherlock.”

It feels as if someone has thrown a wrench into the smooth, oiled clockwork of Sherlock’s brain. For a moment, he just stares at Mycroft, open-mouthed.

He expected criticism for failing to predict the demise of the Watsons’ marriage, perhaps. Cutting remarks about his shortcomings at deduction. Not _this._ Mycroft, naming what Sherlock can’t even say aloud. It’s so shocking that Sherlock’s usual cold-and-distant mask slips off and smashes into shards of anger.

“My feelings are irrelevant, regardless of what you might think,” he snaps. “John needs to be happy. That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

A half-second too late Sherlock realises he’s denied nothing.

Mycroft’s beaten him. Mycroft caught him wrong-footed, and now he’s utterly exposed. Game, set, match. Check and mate.

For God’s sake. Damn it. _Damn_ Mycroft.

Mycroft doesn’t act victorious. He does not raise an eyebrow and smile smugly. Instead, he makes a small sound, almost like an intake of breath. An uncharacteristic hesitation.

“Then I will do anything he needs,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock swallows, feeling as if he might shatter out of sheer vulnerability.

Mycroft sees this, of course. Of course he sees.

“A new flat,” Mycroft continues, as if Sherlock isn’t falling to pieces in front of him. “Mary needs to be in London, preferably within twenty minutes of Baker Street, if possible. We have a number of flats available at any given time. I will tell her that the flat has been vacant too long and therefore needs an occupant. Someone who can keep an eye on the building.”

Sherlock grapples for a foothold on his composure. Mycroft pretends not to notice. “Mary can do that.”

“Mary Morstan is capable of keeping an eye on many things. Perhaps it’s time for her to use those skills again.”

“Will she suspect this was arranged?”

“Of course. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to stay in the suburbs.”

Sherlock hesitates. “She’s not -- dangerous.”

“I don’t believe so.” Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “Would I have let John near her if she was? No, she’d been inactive in her field for several years before John met her. Looking for a career change. We’ve kept an eye. In any event, MI-6 housing should guarantee a high degree of security.” Mycroft turns back to his laptop, types briefly -- probably already arranging the flat. “And John will be needing a new job, I expect.”

Sherlock exhales. “Yes. That would be good.”

God. Mycroft holds Sherlock’s beating heart in his hands, he could squeeze, he has _won_ , and instead he continues typing, subdued and careful.

“Closer to home. Flexible hours,” Mycroft says. He types for another minute. “John will be receiving a call tomorrow from a clinic in Marylebone. Pay rise.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again. “Yes.”

The slanting light disappears from Mycroft’s office, a sudden shift, not a slow fade into darkness. Sherlock realises he is still standing, poised as if to disappear just like the light. Fluorescent bulbs switch on at the room’s perimeter, and the room goes from dim to bright once more. Sherlock has never been here to see this change, the automatic shift between day and night in this cloistered room. Mycroft must see it every day.

His brother sits, still typing. Hasn’t summoned anyone. Hasn’t inserted anyone else into this equation, hasn’t delegated Sherlock’s problems to his staff. He does not even seem to be aware of his victory at all.

Perhaps he isn’t playing, this time.

Sherlock sits down in one of the slim chairs across from Mycroft’s desk.

Mycroft finishes, closes his laptop, regards Sherlock with his usual blend of dismissive exasperation. “Haven’t you got someplace to be?”

Sherlock shrugs. “How’s the Thai delivery in this neighbourhood?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows climb all the way to his scalp. “Excuse me?”

“I’m hungry. I’m asking about food.”

“You’re asking about _food_.”

Sherlock has to fight the impulse to roll his eyes. “You’re welcome to have some as well.”

Mycroft sits up, straightens his waistcoat. “Are you proposing we have a _meal together?_ ”

“It’s a common social ritual in many cultures. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

Mycroft’s eyes flick over his face, scanning, most likely, for indications that Sherlock’s had a traumatic brain injury in the last few minutes.

Sherlock doesn’t feel like explaining.

“I’ll send for some,” Mycroft says, and for half a second, Sherlock can hear the ghost of a break in his voice, as if they were still young, as if he’d just got home from school on holiday.

“Have you got a chess set down here?”

“I’m rather _busy,_ if you hadn’t realised. I believe you interrupted.”

Sherlock waits.

“Second drawer on the left,” Mycroft says.


	23. 31 Weeks

John has moved house many times, but something about this move reminds him of the time he left his old row house, when his father died. The move he never saw.

One day, his father was alive, and his family lived in a funny little brick house. The next day, his father was dead, a wrecking ball that crashed into his family’s neat little life, clearing them out of that house, out of that long green bowling alley of a yard.

John never really saw it happen. He didn’t pack up their things, didn’t return to carve his name into one of the bricks. He just went to the next house, and lived in it.

Mary called last night with news of a government flat in London that needs looking after, close to Baker Street, decent schools, their new hospital, and would he mind terribly if she just said yes?

He wouldn’t mind. Christ, he would not mind one bit.

Mary had sighed happily, explaining that they won’t even have to move their things -- the government will take care of it for them. They’ll even put the old house on the market. John doesn’t need to go back, remove the latches from those damn cabinets. He doesn’t need to carve his name anywhere. He’s already gone.

It doesn’t take a brilliant detective to deduce that the Holmes brothers have orchestrated every detail of this turn of events.

Now that a flat’s been offered to Mary, John’s dizzy with relief, but mortified that someone else had to step in and manipulate his life back into a workable state. He should have done something, but instead he’s been running after Sherlock, pretending that everything will sort itself out over time. As if he hasn’t just learned that inaction is the quickest path to disaster. 

Of course Mary needs a flat, of course she should move back into London -- John should have anticipated. Their lives need to continue, together, apart. People do this. Divorce is not an obscure science only visible under a microscope in Sherlock’s beloved lab.

Divorce. It has a name, what they’re about to do. They’re not the only people in the world who’ve done it. Their lives will always be awkwardly entangled. And someday, if they’re lucky, the entanglement will be a little less awkward. Regardless, they’ll make it work.

Thanks to Sherlock, they’ll make it work.

Because John’s phone also rang this morning with a job offer, an offer he’d be insane to refuse. Marylebone, flexible hours, all the neat little pins lined up in a row. He can call Mary and they can both pretend he’d be crazy to turn it down, when what they’re really pretending is that Sherlock and Mycroft didn’t arrange all of this down to the last digit in John’s pay rise.

Mary laughs, when he tells her. There’s no use pretending at all. It’s too absurd.

“So where do we address the thank-you letters?” she asks. “I can’t recall the post code for the Diogenes Club.”

“I think Mycroft’s a bit like Father Christmas,” John says, shuffling around to make tea, cradling the phone to his ear. “You can just write ‘Mycroft’ on the envelope and drop it in the post. Doesn’t even need a stamp.”

“Did you just equate my brother to Father Christmas?” Sherlock says, shutting the bathroom door and sweeping into the kitchen in his dressing gown. “I might need to rethink my choice of flatmate.”

“Morning, Sherlock,” Mary says, in John’s ear.

“Good morning, Mary.” Sherlock begins to rifle through the chaos of his current experiment, glass slides in disarray across the kitchen table.

“You can tell him if he did this to ensure his status as godfather, he needn’t have bothered. I think it’s already in the bag,” Mary adds.

John smirks. A flush of affection burns his cheeks, and he ducks his head out of Sherlock’s view, pretending to busy himself with the toaster. “Careful, he’ll hear that.”

“Good.” A quick breath. “Look, I need to get to work. I’m happy for you, John. The job will be good for you.”

She sounds relieved. John wonders if it’s an equal relief to Mary that he’s leaving the office where they first met.

“Yeah. Thanks.” John clears his throat. “I, um. I’ll come round to help with whatever you need.”

“It’s fine, really. I think Mycroft snaps his fingers, and magical elves will appear to cart our belongings to the right spots in London.” She pauses. “Maybe this Father Christmas idea isn’t so far off.”

John chuckles. “Maybe not.”

“Right. Talk to you later. I’ll call when I’m in the new place. Should be tonight or tomorrow.”

“Right. Okay. Bye, then.”

“Bye.”

John hangs up, finishes fixing his tea. Without noticing, he’s taken Sherlock’s mug out as well, a reflex as automatic as hanging up his jacket behind the door. He brews Sherlock a cup, adds a generous spoon of sugar, and turns to hand it over, but Sherlock’s already waiting to accept it.

Sherlock gives him a quiet smile and sets it down on the table next to his microscope, his focus shifting to the slides waiting for analysis. John can see their day spread out ahead of them, simple and comfortable like butter over toast: two mugs of tea, two newspapers. Sherlock at the microscope or fiddling with his violin. John will poke at his blog. Maybe Lestrade will call.

John’s nagging anxiety begins to lift. This isn’t the same as that long-ago move that began with a police officer at the door. This move, this time, is John’s choice. Baker Street is John’s home again, and these two mugs of tea feel like a thrill, a promise of countless mornings just as right as this one.

A rush of gratefulness overwhelms him, and he reaches out to Sherlock before Sherlock can sit down. Under his fingers, Sherlock’s pulse flutters, a skip of surprise.

“Sorry, I just --” John says, and Sherlock’s brows draw together, quizzical, intent, before John pulls him into a rough hug.

He can’t help it; he knows Sherlock hates it. But there’s no other way to cope with the gratitude that wants to spill out of him, and he wraps his arms around Sherlock, engulfed in his familiar smell, the smooth nap of his silk dressing gown.

Sherlock doesn’t flinch away. Instead, his muscles tense, hard lines of surprise, and then begin to relax by infinitely small degrees.

“Thanks,” John says, tightening his arms. “I know what you did. Thank you.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. A hand hesitantly creeps over John’s back, settling between his shoulder blades. Pats him once, twice. A lump lodges in John’s throat, and he slowly releases his grip, disentangling them. “Sorry.”

Sherlock’s face is flushed, his lips parted. He looks terrified enough that John takes another step back, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

John huffs an embarrassed laugh. “You went to Mycroft’s yesterday.”

Sherlock’s prickly exterior slides back into place. “Maybe.”

“Well. It was -- you know. Above and beyond.”

A flush darkens Sherlock’s cheekbones. His mouth quirks: uncertainty. Fondness, perhaps. John blinks, aware that perhaps he should not be staring at Sherlock’s mouth. He didn’t even realise.

Sherlock glances away. “Of course,” he says, and sits down in front of his microscope.

John takes his tea and toast into the sitting room. The first sip goes down hot and mellow, the mug warming his fingers like the smooth skin of Sherlock’s wrist.


	24. 31 Weeks, 3 Days

“Sherlock. Are you even listening to me?”

John taps at his laptop, one key at a time. Maddening. Methodical. His brow creases in concentration, but his shoulders are low, relaxed: not agitated, then. Typing up the last case? Promising. Very promising. Of course, all relevant names will have to be changed, or John will have to enter a witness protection program in Latvia, but John knows that well enough.

“Hmm?”

Lestrade’s voice hardens over their mobile connection. “Sherlock. I said: Are. You. Listening.”

New haircut -- short, like John wore it several years ago. Neater, cleaner, more military. Preparing for the new job next week. He’s slept well, though, so not nervous about the change. A good eight hours’ rest, even though they stayed up late watching _Britain’s Got Talent_ and arguing over which contestant had clearly bribed Piers Morgan. John had gotten stroppy when Sherlock pointed out that the parents of the 10-year-old soprano had clearly bought their way into the audition, but only because John had cried at her hackneyed rendition of “Memory.”

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock gives in with a huff. “Two bodies, two separate skips, found two days apart. First, a 25-year-old unidentified woman, Old Street, apparent drug overdose, dead for at least a week before discovery. Second, a 32-year-old shop clerk in East Acton, asphyxiation, no fingerprints on the body, likely suffocated with a plastic bag. I see no connection other than the method of corpse disposal, and in London, it’s either a skip or the Thames. Surely you’ve worked in this city before.”

Sherlock has let acid creep into his voice. He is busy. He is busy not thinking about the nape of John’s neck and the fine, recently shorn edge of his haircut.

Lestrade exhales into the phone, a long-suffering, angry sound. “Of course I’ve got no bloody experience at this whatsoever. I don’t know what the _fuck_ I was thinking, calling you.”

His voice cracks on the profanity, uncharacteristic. Enough to capture Sherlock’s attention.

A twinge of guilt. “Been busy,” he mutters.

“You pester me for cases for months, Sherlock, but when I’ve finally got something, you act like I’m some kid selling newspaper subscriptions.” Lestrade pauses. “Look, I know you’ve had a lot going on over there. He’s all right, is he? I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to him much.”

“He’s fine.” John doesn’t look up, unaware he’s being discussed.

No, the one thing Sherlock can say with some authority is that John is, in fact, fine. He’s been gathering an extensive amount of data on the subject.

“Good. Good, right. Okay, look. I know it’s probably nothing, but these two bodies -- can you just come take a look? We can’t hang onto them much longer.”

Sherlock sighs. “Yes. _Fine._ ”

John shifts in his chair, turns to look at Sherlock. Raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, and he can’t help a small smile, even as he rolls his eyes. “Sorry. Yes. We’ll come down.”

Lestrade blows out a breath. “Good. Thanks. I --”

Sherlock hangs up the call. Tilts his head toward the door. “We’re going to the morgue.”

“Scale of one to ten, how much will I have to apologise to Greg?”

Sherlock pretends to consider this. “Four.” He pockets his mobile. “Five, maybe.”

John stands up. “You going to buy the coffee, then, for my trouble?”

“I don’t need any coffee.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

Sherlock tries to look exasperated. By the time he realises the extent of his failure to do so, John is grinning broadly at him. Sherlock’s heart twists in his chest. Not anatomically possible, but it twists nonetheless.

Chemistry is the study of change, but nothing has changed between them. It seems this state has always existed, this place they stumble into when they stand too close, when they glance at each other, when they laugh at just the right time. They’ve always had it; Sherlock just never knew what to call it.

Chemistry. That’s what it is.


	25. 32 Weeks

December looms. Lights creep up the lampposts on Oxford Street, shop windows swapping their contents for holiday displays. Mycroft hovers, unable to resist involvement. Or perhaps he feels as though he is needed. It’s hard to tell the difference.

Sherlock lets him be.

The two bodies in the morgue turn out to be just that: two bodies. Both young, female, blessedly unmarked by violence. The unidentified woman has dyed red hair, multiple piercings, countless tattoos, a few stray needle marks, and has almost certainly died of a drug overdose. The other victim, dressed in tight, expensive jeans, was suffocated -- most likely with a plastic bag -- by someone wearing gloves. No reason to think the two deaths were related. Lestrade puts a few of his staff on the case and promises he’ll call Sherlock if anything unusual turns up. 

Sherlock is perfectly content to let Lestrade work. Baker Street still holds an air of delicate transition, of new routines not yet molded into their final shapes. John appears and disappears, carrying boxes, groceries, and lately, a briefcase. His new employer is forgiving in the way only someone under Mycroft’s thumb can be. John tells Sherlock to convey his thanks.

Sherlock does.

The move goes smoothly. John and Mary’s former house is stripped of possessions, cabinet locks notwithstanding, and Mary moves into a flat in Notting Hill, an allegedly charming two-bedroom Sherlock has yet to see in person. John talks to her daily, quick, perfunctory check-ins: she feels fine, she feels huge, she wishes this damn baby was out already. She’s stopped texting Sherlock, perhaps because she thinks it’s awkward. Maybe it is awkward? This is definitely not Sherlock’s area of expertise.

Still, he finds he misses her, in an odd sort of way. He realises that for ages he’s thought of her as a case rather than a person, and he’s not sure which of the two he’s missing. With her life contained neatly in Mycroft’s MI-6 packaging, Mary’s dangerous edge feels blunt and mundane: case closed, filed away. It’s the child, now, that sends Sherlock’s thoughts racing along terrifying new tracks.

This child, this little girl, will divide John’s attention. A new person will move to the top of John’s priorities, and even if he never leaves Baker Street, John will leave Sherlock all the same. This Christmas will be their last alone, all future holidays filled with the distraction of toys and the shrieks of this yet-unknown human. The worst of it is, Sherlock doesn’t even _like_ Christmas. He doesn’t understand why his insides clench at the thought of any change.

He hates himself for thinking like this. This little girl will be John’s, and therefore, she will at the very least be tolerable -- genetics make that outcome likely. More importantly, Sherlock should be happy simply to have John at home where he belongs. It would be inappropriate to wish for anything more.

It’s not as if Sherlock himself is capable of giving anything more, anyway. He’d give it, whatever the hell it is, but -- it’s not as if he has any idea _how._

Mycroft knows, and he hovers, waiting for Sherlock to fall. This has always been their pattern: Sherlock falls, Mycroft swoops in, cleans up. And now, again, Mycroft waits for the inevitable.

As if he could help, at all.


	26. 33 Weeks

John stands in the doorway of Mary’s new building, drowning in the scent of flowers as he clutches a paper-wrapped bouquet. All told, it took twenty minutes to get here: a Tube ride from Baker Street and then a quick walk down streets lined with candy-coloured houses. In the chilly weather, the flowers haven’t yet had a chance to droop.

He’s been here already to help with the move, of course. Somehow, that was easier. With furniture to wrangle and boxes to unpack, he could leave when he was no longer needed, and all conversations circled around relevant tasks. This is the first time he’s visited since Mary’s properly moved in, and it feels distinctly like a social call. At some point, he’s sure that this separation, or divorce, or relationship failure -- whatever the hell it is -- will become less painfully strange. But not today.

He rings the bell, and the intercom buzzes to life. “Come on up,” Mary’s voice chirps, and the door’s latch releases with a heavy click.

Mary meets him at the door of the flat and accepts the bouquet with a gracious smile. He kisses her lightly on the cheek, because it seems bizarre to say hello without even touching her. They did have sex in every imaginable position for nearly two years.

The new flat is light and bright in the way 221B isn’t: tasteful yellow walls, white trim, white built-in shelves surrounding a Victorian fireplace. Whoever designed this place eschewed the cold-and-modern trend, and instead the place feels clean without being frigid and antiseptic. Kudos to MI-6, really. John has been keeping his eye out for hidden cameras and security features, but if they’re here, they’re seamlessly integrated with the flat’s architecture.

Mary’s already busy putting the flowers in a vase, bustling around the kitchen. “Tea?”

“That’s fine, I’ll get it. You come sit.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll just put the kettle on.”

“Then I’ll come fix it for you.”

A resigned sigh. “All right.”

He takes a seat in one of their armchairs, making sure not to take the one he used to sleep in, because this is already awkward enough. Mary reappears and eases herself onto the sofa, her bulky form entirely without a reliable centre of gravity. He holds out a hand to steady her, but she shakes her head.

It’s then that he finally registers the strand of fairy lights draped over the mantelpiece, another strand around the front windows. The kettle clicks off before he has a chance to say anything, and he stands up, hurrying into the kitchen to find Mary’s already set out their mugs.

So many things he hasn’t thought about, things that now assail him as he fumbles with the kettle. Mary, hanging fairy lights by herself in the flat. Mary, alone on Christmas. Would she be alone? What if she wanted a tree? She couldn’t get a tree in her state, it would have to be a little tree, and she shouldn’t bother -- John should get one for her, he should make sure she’s taken care of, even though she doesn’t want him around, even though it’s hard for them to even sit in the same room these days, pretending that everything’s fine --

“You okay in there? Sugar’s in the cupboard on the left.”

“Fine. Be right there.”

The sugar is just where it should be in the neat little kitchen, Mary’s kitchen, everything just where it usually is, except -- different space, different room. John clatters his way through the tea ministrations and makes it back into the sitting room, setting down their mugs before he settles back into the chair that was definitely not his at any point.

“So,” he says, eyebrows raised, cheery, tight-lipped smile.

“So.” She raises her eyebrows right back, reaches for her tea.

“You, um. Feeling all right?”

Mary shrugs. “Vaguely.”

Her hair’s a bit longer now, John notices, long enough that it’s starting to curl. She’s even more decidedly pregnant. It feels odd not to have been here to see these incremental changes.

“Flat looks nice.”

“Yeah, it came together well in the end. Thanks for helping.”

“Of course. So you’re settling in okay?”

“Definitely. Much nicer to be in the city. I like being in the middle of things. Commute’s a bit shorter.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Mmm.”

They sip their tea.

Mary puts her mug down and blows out a breath. “Christ, this is bloody _awful._ ”

“What, the tea?”

Nearly a laugh. Mary’s eyes glint, but she looks sad. She waves a hand. “This. Us. Trying to -- do this.”

John exhales. “God, yes. Horrific.”

“Agonising.”

They share a matched set of grim smiles. John clears his throat. “Um, Christmas. I didn’t even think about that.”

Mary bites her lip. “I have plans.”

“You do.” John hasn’t thought ahead, doesn’t even know what he’ll be doing. Spending it with Sherlock? The thought sends a spark of comfort through him, followed by a twist of guilt. John has Sherlock; Mary has -- well, just friends. Some of whom are John’s friends. Do they split up their friends, now? Divide them as if they’re monetary assets?

“A few of the girls from the office are having a Christmas party. And Susan’s invited me to stay at hers for a few days. I don’t know yet if I will.”

“Oh, that’s -- that’s nice, I mean, Susan’s great.”

“Yeah. I might go. Islington. So, not too far.”

“Okay.” A pause. “You know you can come over.”

Mary gives him a look. “John, I don’t think --”

“I don’t care if it’s weird, or -- whatever. You could have a _baby._ ”

“And I keep saying, I’m fine.”

“Oh, you’re fine. How do you know that? Exactly how many babies have you had?” John holds up a finger. “Wait. Don’t answer that.”

Mary chuckles. “This is the first, I promise.”

“And you’re just going to handle it all alone, if something happens. If you go into labour. Your special secret agent skills somehow extend to childbirth?”

“I’ll call you. Don’t be ridiculous.”

God. Mary is so cool, so maddeningly capable that John can actually picture her giving birth in this sitting room and calmly phoning him after the fact. She is, after all, a nurse _and_ an assassin. Even so, this is not on John’s list of desired ways for his child to enter the world. He suddenly knows what his pay rise is for, exactly what he can afford with the blatantly illogical hike in his salary.

“We’re hiring a nanny,” he tells Mary. “She can start before the baby comes.”

“I don’t want anyone else living here.”

“It doesn’t have to be long-term. But you need someone.”

“I don’t have time --”

“Mycroft can find the right person.”

This is the most direct he’s ever been about the man conducting their life behind the scenes. Mary takes this in, rubbing her thumb on the handle of her mug. He can see her doing the math: John can afford it now. Mary would be able to go back to work at some later point. The baby would have a constant in her life, someone to ease the transition between two working parents.

“Yes,” she says, resigned. “All right.”

“Okay. Good. Well.” John exhales, feeling lighter. “That’ll be good.”

Mary sips her tea, sets it down, her other hand drifting to settle on her belly. John knows her well enough to tell that she agrees with him, but she’s working to temper her fierce independence all the same. He feels a pang of sadness: what were they thinking, setting themselves up in the suburbs, pretending to be like everyone else? It doesn’t suit either of them. It never did.

“Promise you’ll stop bothering me, then, about whether or not I’ll be all right,” Mary says, her eyes glinting in a way to suggest she’s only partly teasing.

“Nope. Can’t promise anything.”

The barest hint of a grin. “Ugh. God, I don’t know why I ever put up with you.”

“You like a challenge.”

“So do you.”

A weighty pause. Mary rubs her belly. “So. Christmas.”

“Yep.”

“You’ll be at Baker Street?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. I think so.”

She seems to consider her next words carefully. “Should be -- nice for you, anyway. The two of you, on your own.”

John’s eyebrows crawl upward. “Why?”

Mary’s eyes go wide. Is this an act, or is she genuinely confused? John sees it now, sees with the clarity of hindsight that she is so much like Sherlock sometimes, and he never even noticed. She’s so savvy, her senses so finely tuned that sometimes he can’t tell if she’s deftly controlling a conversation or merely reacting to it. And he clearly craves that uncertainty, well-trained to be several steps behind. He has Sherlock to thank for that.

“Oh,” she says slowly. “I thought you and Sherlock... ”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, just trails off, her cheeks reddening.

John huffs a laugh. “Are you seriously making that joke? That was getting old even before he jumped.”

Mary’s eyes go wider, and no -- no, she _isn’t_ making that joke. John blinks. She studies him as if she doesn’t understand whether his reaction is genuine either. “You’re really not --” She flounders. John stares, surprise giving way to thorough confusion.

“Wait a minute. You think --” He can’t even say it aloud. He swallows and looks away, soft fairy lights burning spots into his vision.

“Forget I said anything.” A fragile laugh, a wave of her hand. “Pregnancy brain, you know, I don’t know what I’m even saying half the time.”

“No -- wait.” This is -- this is not okay, this is not anything John was prepared to handle, and odd emotions are lurching up through his stomach as if he might be sick. What does Mary mean? He must be misunderstanding her, he’s confused, he’s distracted, there’s too much going on, a baby and a separation, and -- Mary, who knows him, who _married_ him, thinks he and Sherlock -- he and _Sherlock_ \--

“No, John, you’re right, I was joking.” Mary, for all of her skill, has lost her fine-tuned control, and John can see real anxiety leaking through her false levity. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

“You were not joking.” John tilts his head to look at her, as if it will help him understand, because what the _hell._ Mary, brilliant, perceptive Mary, thinks -- what, exactly? “You weren’t joking, Mary, I know when you’re joking, and that wasn’t meant to be funny.”

“No, of course not.” Mary sits up straighter. “Of course not. I said, forget it.”

Anger settles over him, hardens his skin like a chrysalis, like a brittle shell. Nothing makes sense. “No, I need to understand this. You need to tell me the truth, Mary. I think I deserve that.” He’s speaking slowly, words hammered out under that angry shell. “You thought I left you -- to be with Sherlock.”

Mary hesitates, then nods.

“Care to elaborate?”

Mary shrugs. “Not really.”

John gives her a hard look.

She shakes her head. “Okay. I thought it was obvious, I thought everyone knew, John.”

“Everyone jokes about it. They’ve always joked about it. You can’t think they were serious, all this time.”

“No. God, no, it’s not that, you didn’t -- you can’t even see, can you? The way you are, the way you both are, I thought --” Mary throws up her hands. “God. John, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”

“How,” John says, gritting out every word, “are we, exactly?”

“You _know_ how you are.”

A tight smile. “Sorry, I don’t.”

“When I met you,” Mary says helplessly. “When I met you, when he was dead, I thought you’d loved him. I thought maybe you’d been in love with him, and you’d never... done anything about it, and that’s why... well. That explained all of it.”

“Explained all of it. All of _what?_ ”

“The way -- you were. Just -- everything.”

“And you _never said anything._ ”

“I thought you would talk about it. About him. If you wanted to.” Tears glitter in her eyes. “I thought I was _helping_ you.”

“You thought I was in love with him.” The words sound as if they’re coming from somewhere else, from the next flat down the hall, from some distant universe. “I’m not _gay_ , Mary, Christ, you of all people should know that.”

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter.” Mary’s voice, delicate and broken. “I thought it didn’t matter.”

A long, stuttering breath. He’s not sure which one of them takes it.

“And so -- help me with this. You thought I was in love with him. And you never asked about it.”

“You were there, John. Jesus. Don’t make me spell it out. You were there, you asked me out, I _liked_ you, and then I _loved_ you, and -- I wanted to help you. He was dead, John, I thought you were mourning him, I thought you were moving on and I wanted to go with you when you did. I’ve committed crimes in my life but I hope to _hell_ that isn’t one of them.”

A few heartbeats of silence.

“You thought all that, and then he came back, and -- you married me.”

Mary actually rolls her eyes, dabbing at the corners with a finger. “My God, what did you think I’d do? You proposed to me. I was in love with you.”

“Okay.” John stands up, feeling the hard shell of anger crack around him. “I -- I need to go, I think.”

“John, I said I’m sorry.” Mary looks thunderstruck, eyes red-rimmed. “I was probably reading too much into things, I --”

“It’s okay.” The flat is clean, cheerful. It smells of flowers. John picks up his coat. Mary’s draped it over another armchair, his old armchair, the one he slept in. The place he slept for so long. “It’s okay. I have to go.”

* * *

“I need to hit something,” John says.

Sherlock, settled in his armchair, looks up. His eyes flick over John. He sets down his phone.

* * *

They don’t say much. John finds a canvas shopping bag in his still-mostly-packed boxes of things, throws an old t-shirt in it, gym shorts, trainers. Sherlock’s waiting for him downstairs, a small satchel slung over his shoulder. They hurry outside and toward Baker Street Station even though there’s no real reason to hurry -- does Sherlock have a case on? John has no idea.

His thoughts have flatlined into a grey blur of noise. Act normal, he tells himself. Act as if all of his life choices haven’t been thrown into question in the past hour. One foot in front of the other, down the escalator, through the tunnels to open mouth of the platform. Disappear into the crush of people waiting for the Metropolitan line.

They stand shoulder to shoulder in the train car. It is familiar, comforting: Sherlock’s dark curls, his elbow jostling John’s side as the train starts and stops, the warmth and shape of him. It is excruciating.

John wills his thoughts to stay inside the car, flying into the dark like a bullet. His thoughts won’t be contained. He drags them back willfully: the man in the seat in front of him is reading the Times. He’s carrying a bag from Harvey Nicks. Think only of this man. The Times. Harvey Nicks.

They change trains. He picks another passenger.

He makes it all the way to Bethnal Green without thinking about the man next to him.

It will all be fine. It doesn’t matter what Mary thinks, she’s been wrong. She’s often wrong. She married John, after all.

When they emerge from the Tube stop Sherlock leads them down a few streets, then down a narrow alley. It’s still quite chilly outside, and it’s rained recently. Their steps echo on the slick pavement. John finds he needs to break up the quiet.

“Not busy, then?”

“Lestrade called this morning. Nothing urgent.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

They reach a weathered brick building with large glass doors, and Sherlock pushes one open, gesturing for John to go first. A tiny, repeating pattern: Sherlock opens doors, lifts up crime tape so John can duck underneath. It means nothing. He leaves John behind half the time. More than half the time. He swans off and dies for a few years on occasion. John should not examine Sherlock’s behaviour too deeply.

He has never felt that way about his flatmate. He has never felt any particular way. They are close. They are compatible. Just because they get along doesn’t mean John wants to shag Sherlock six ways to Sunday. Everyone has jumped to fucking conclusions so eagerly you’d think John’s life was some sort of pole vaulting competition. Honestly. The nerve of some people. Thinking that just because two people want to be together all the time -- because two people find joy in each other’s company -- no. Fuck it. Fuck them. They don’t know. They’ve never been inside John’s head. They don’t know what it’s like.

Sherlock is watching him.

“Sorry,” John says, and steps inside.

Sherlock walks up to a desk in the lobby and a woman nods at him. He sweeps past her and pushes his way through a set of double doors. John trails after him.

The boxing gym is a warren of windowless rooms, crowded with red punching bags and plastered with black-and-white posters of Muhammad Ali. At this odd hour between lunch and the end of the workday it’s surprisingly empty, although John can hear the distant sound of gloves hitting leather as they weave their way through the space. Sherlock leads them into the changing room, where they hang their coats on hooks. John sets down his canvas bag feeling as if he’s arrived on an alien planet. Why are they here, exactly? Why did he think this was a good idea?

“I suppose it’s pointless to ask how you found this place,” John says, struggling to keep his tone light.

Sherlock hangs up his jacket and turns to unbutton his shirt, leveling his _you’re-an-idiot_ look at John. “You know I box.”

“I didn’t know you actually went to a _gym_.”

“I don’t come in regularly.”

“They know you, though.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I may have done the owner a favour.”

“Ah. Shocking.”

John sits on a bench, takes off his shoes, pulls off his jumper.

Maybe this is a mistake.

He thought he needed this. When he saw Sherlock in the ring that night, he’d understood. He recognized that impulse. And God, he has that impulse now, he wants to move and breathe until he can’t think, until he’s nothing but nerves and reflex. But he hadn’t counted on this part: this proximity, this confrontation of Sherlock’s human self, stripped bare. This is too much. Is it? It feels like too much. It might be.

Maybe he should say something. They can get a pint instead, go back home.

Well. If he has no feelings for Sherlock, this should not bother him. Simple as that. So it’s fine. It shouldn’t matter. Christ, it’s only a changing room. They share a bloody bathroom at home.

Sherlock sits down across from him, shirt open and untucked, and takes off his own shoes. Nothing John hasn’t seen a thousand times. Sherlock’s long, pale feet, his ridiculous flexing toes. John unbuttons his own shirt, businesslike. Think of the task at hand. Two mates out at the gym. Totally plebian. Totally normal.

Sherlock slips off his trousers, pulls on the pair of black track pants John remembers from the boxing match. He stands up, strips off his shirt. Hangs his things on a hook. Reaches for his trainers. Leaves his shirt off.

His hair’s getting long. Of course John would know this. They live together.

John forces his eyes back down to his own bag, his ancient gym shorts. He takes off his jeans and pulls on his shorts with military efficiency. He’ll need to take off his vest next. He doesn’t care. He was a soldier.

He’s not in Army shape any longer, though. Far from it. But it’s fine. There should literally be no reason this matters at all.

He pulls his vest over his head and feels Sherlock’s eyes on him. For the next solid minute he makes a spectacular effort not to blush as he grapples with his bag. His gym t-shirt is tangled in knots, wrapped in the laces of his trainers. He hates this shirt. He hates the universe.

Sherlock’s gaze feels like blazing heat across John’s bare skin. John can’t help it; he looks up.

He can joke about this. For Christ’s sake.

“Go on, say it,” he says, tugging at the shirt. “Bit overdue for the gym.”

The knots tighten. He’s going to set this shirt on fire as soon as he gets home.

Sherlock doesn’t comment, even though John has lobbed him an easy ace. Instead, he clears his throat, his voice hitting its deepest register.

“Do you know how to use this?”

An object hits the bench next to John’s bag: a roll of tape.

John picks it up, looks up. Sherlock’s got a t-shirt on now. He’s started to wrap his own hands with another roll of tape, quickly, expertly. He still has scars on two of his knuckles.

“I can manage.”

John looks down at his hands, so much smaller than Sherlock’s. At the wedding ring still on his left hand.

Well then.

It comes off easily. The outside is already nicked, a few scratches marring the otherwise shiny surface. He hasn’t bothered to take it off yet, but he hasn’t looked at it, either. It’s part of the haze that obscured his marriage, just another thing he tried not to notice. He turns it over in his palm, then gets out his wallet and tucks it inside.

Mary’s wedding ring is off already, he realises. She took it off a month or two ago. Pregnancy made her fingers and ankles swell, and she tugged it off one night, returning it safely to its box. He wonders if she guessed it might stay there.

He wonders if Sherlock noticed. If Sherlock worked out the state of their marriage from their wedding rings.

By the time he looks up again, Sherlock is gone.

* * *

The punching bag swings gently from its chain, blotting out most of John’s vision.

Which is good. Brilliant. Blot it all out.

He doesn’t need to see Sherlock next to him, all lithe muscle -- Christ, since when has he _looked_ like that? Well. John doesn’t need to see. Especially not the way Sherlock moves, his impossible grace, the way he angles his shoulders toward the punching bag with unconscious competence. Nope. John doesn’t need to see any of that at all.

Mary can be wrong. She can be wrong, she’s been wrong before. He’s not about to let her damn power of suggestion send him into a spiral of doubt. He’s been through enough lately.

Sherlock drives a steady flurry of punches into the bag next to his, a precise, polished rhythm. It’s a drill, a command: step up, soldier. John obeys.

His muscles are rusty, but his reflexes are good. His hands sweat in unfamiliar, gym-issue gloves: Sherlock insisted on gloves. Three punches. Pause. Six. Pause. Three more. His fists follow the beat of Sherlock’s without thinking.

Three. Pause. Six.

The bag blots out his vision. He hears his own fists. The sound of Sherlock’s. The same rhythm. The same breath. This is how it always ends: Sherlock, next to him. The same breath. The same rhythm.

Three. Pause. Six.

Mary is rarely wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might slow down a bit during the summer months. Thanks, as always, for the wonderful comments -- I love hearing from you. <3 Mars


	27. 33 Weeks, 1 Day

John’s tongue smarts from the residual burn of too-hot coffee. The cup must have been pressed into his cold hands sometime in the last few minutes, most likely by one of the junior officers milling about in the alleyway near Embankment Station. He hopes he had the presence of mind to thank them. He can’t remember.

It’s freezing, grey, nearly-but-not-quite raining. He’s barely awake, a knot of sore muscles, and down to one functional brain cell. Yesterday he’d pummelled a heavy bag until his fists went numb inside his gloves. Sweat soaked straight through every layer of his clothing, shorts and pants and even socks. All the while, Sherlock didn’t ask a single question. He probably figured it had something to do with Mary. And in a way, it did.

John’s not sure if he could have answered any questions, if Sherlock had asked them.

He’d collapsed into bed early, grateful for the oblivion of physical exhaustion, and since then he hasn’t had time to think. Lestrade woke them at half five this morning, pounding up the stairs: a third body found in a skip. No one said “serial killer” as they scrambled into the waiting car, but the thought hummed under Sherlock and Lestrade’s clipped conversation as they sped down Regent Street, lights flashing.

Now Sherlock is prowling the alley, picking up bits of rubbish, running a finger along damp walls. He fairly radiates fury.

“He doesn’t look happy,” says a voice at John’s shoulder. Lestrade, who looks twice as knackered as John feels, sips his own cup of coffee.

“No, he doesn’t.”

They watch as Sherlock corners a terrified-looking officer and points up at the office windows directly above the skip. The officer looks as if she might rather switch places with the body on the ground.

“The guy who did this had balls,” Lestrade comments, shaking his head. “There must be fifty windows overlooking this alley. Of course it’ll take us a bloody year to conduct all the interviews. Sherlock’s probably upset we haven’t finished already.”

John has already finished his own cursory examination. Attractive young woman, mid-twenties, heavy black parka, slim black pants, black-and-white brogues. No ID on her, and no obvious cause of death. They’ll have a long wait for a battery of tests and autopsy results, even if they manage to get immediate access to the body at the morgue.

The intimidated young officer appears by Lestrade’s side, clearly reeling under the blunt force trauma of Sherlock’s mood. Lestrade gives John an apologetic nod and steps away.

John’s phone buzzes.

_I’m sorry. I hope you’re not upset. M._

Christ. There is no world in which John is ready for this.

Feeling like a prize arsehole, he slips his phone back into his jacket without replying, sending up a silent prayer for Mary to to read his mind so he doesn’t have to answer. A moment later, two more text alerts. Evidently her superpowers don’t extend to long distance telepathy.

_You have every right to be upset. I wasn’t thinking. M._

_I just made the wrong assumption. I should have asked you about your feelings ages ago. I’m shit at communicating, but you know that by now. M._

John’s eyes catch the woman on the ground, crumpled at an odd angle, her parka starting to leach water from the wet pavement. They are on a case. Gold-star excuse.

_So sorry, on a case. Talk later?_

_You all right? M._

_Fine. Don’t worry. You?_

_I’m fine. Stay safe. Xxx M._

“John.”

He looks up to see Sherlock watching him. The cold winter air has whipped his hair into disarray, his scarf pulled up high inside his collar, that damn coat flaring behind him. But then, this is always the way Sherlock looks, moving through space as if any angle would make a striking photo. He’s half-scowling, expression dark, but -- not angry at John. No, waiting for John to come over. There’s something almost vulnerable about the way he waits, shielded in his coat as if it were armour.

John’s heart kicks at the sight.

For an odd moment it’s almost as if he can see outside of himself, zoomed above the shadowed alley, staring down from one of its many windows. This is where he’s supposed to be: the grim underside of London, danger crackling beneath them like a live electric rail. Maybe this is what Mary saw: the magnetic pull of danger, he and Sherlock both gravitating toward it. That must be it. Yes, of course. That’s what she was seeing, all this time.

John pockets his mobile, walks over to Sherlock. He settles into his place at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s stance shifts, allowing John to step closer. It’s a little thing, just the tiniest of movements.

“I’ve been an idiot,” Sherlock bites out, low under his breath. “We could have prevented this. I didn’t _see --_ ”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I examined those bodies, Sherlock. If there was a link we would’ve spotted it.”

“ _Lestrade_ had a feeling about this.” Sherlock’s narrowed eyes scan the alley’s black windows. _“Lestrade._ He tried to tell me --”

“This is his _job._ "

“No, it’s _mine._ ”

Their eyes meet, a charged, grounding point. As if everything around them has been throwing off sparks, and they can at last exist in a closed circuit.

God. Why has he let Mary get to him, rattle his already-shaky equilibrium? He’s been so deeply inside his own head that he hasn’t seen anything else. He hasn’t seen that Sherlock is far from his usual self, his mouth a tight line of worry and anger. Ordinarily John would have to remind him that unadulterated joy is not an appropriate response to the threat of a serial killer. But there’s no joy in the scattered, frustrated flick of Sherlock’s eyes over John’s face. Something is wrong. He’s every bit as preoccupied as John.

The alley has gone very quiet, and from above, John can still see them, the zoomed-out photo they must make: two dark figures at close angles, long coat, short jacket, heads bent together. A body at their feet. A pattern, for better or worse, stitched tightly into John’s life.

“Mary texted you,” Sherlock says.

And there it is. A tiny point of illumination, the briefest of glimpses into Sherlock’s mind. John’s never sure whether Sherlock lets him in deliberately, or if it’s something that just happens, a phenomenon born of knowing Sherlock so well. But John understands: despite the investigation, Sherlock’s noticed Mary texting John. It’s likely derailed Sherlock’s intricate, full-steam train of thought.

John isn’t the only one waiting for this baby.

Even after everything that’s happened, he’s still used to thinking of Sherlock as somehow immune to basic worries. But Sherlock is not a machine. No, Sherlock’s emotions run deep, hidden veins beneath a veneer of stone.

John is the cause of this. He’s the reason Sherlock isn’t himself right now. His choices got them here, and damned if they’re not going to get through it together, somehow. There will be a baby, and they will go on. They will continue to do this. He will not think about anything Mary said to him yesterday, because it may well send him to a mental institution before he finishes his cup of coffee.

“Mary’s fine. She’s fine, Sherlock. We’ve got weeks to go.” He gives Sherlock’s arm a quick squeeze, releases it. “Serial killer, right?” He manages a weak grin. “Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock blinks at him for a moment.

“You want to, um. Take us through it?” John prompts, gesturing at the corpse.

Sherlock smiles, a tentative, private smile. They have this. They understand each other.

“It’s possible she knew the killer in some capacity,” Sherlock says, and John can see his mind sliding back into gear. “She’s missing her ID, phone, wallet, any sort of bag, but she doesn’t have any injuries that indicate a struggle. Could have been drugged, date rape gone wrong, but she’s not dressed for a club. Not ambushed at home, because she’s wearing her winter coat, so clearly she dressed for the weather.”

“Any chance her bag was stolen out of the skip?”

“Possible. Lestrade’s looking into it. But she’s got an Oyster card in her jacket pocket, so that should give us some information.”

They fall into their pattern, an easy back-and-forth of question and answer, like divers slowly descending into deep waters. A woman lies dead, which is wrong, which is _horrible_ , but as the morning drags on, somehow everything seems a little bit better.


	28. 34 Weeks

This is always Sherlock’s favourite part of a case: finding its shape. It might be the sharp, single sting of a lone murder, the rest of the details obscured in fuzz, like a bee. It might have claws, or a whole mouth of teeth -- armed thugs, assassins -- and they’ll have to run down dark alleys and bring John’s gun. Or it might have subtle tendrils of intrigue, barely perceptible lies that poison a family’s affairs. Secrets that take flight like feathered wings. Slowly the shape will emerge, and Sherlock will feel around the edges until he knows its nature. It eclipses all of his attention, this phase, the thrill of groping his way in the dark.

But this time -- this time has been different.

For once, he hadn’t _seen_. He’d been so eager to push aside the bodies, ignore Lestrade, devote his attention to the minutiae surrounding his flatmate. Uncharacteristic. Unacceptable.

But then John, steady, grounding, forced Sherlock’s attention back to task. Smoothed out the jagged fury that had wrested itself from Sherlock’s control. How can one person be the cause of so much chaos, yet bring order to it at the same time? John is an anomaly. He does both.

John is different now. They are different together. It’s as if they’ve become a distilled version of themselves, their connection reduced into a powerful concentrate. These days, John’s eyes never leave him, watching him, studying him as if John is also trying to guess at a shape. The shape of their odd connection. The nature of the beast.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking on Sherlock’s part. Perhaps his hyper-awareness of John has gone into overdrive, exaggerating each of John’s movements, the dart of John’s tongue over his lips as he watches Sherlock in the morgue. But ever since that day -- the day John went to Mary’s, the day at the gym -- John’s eyes have rarely strayed elsewhere. Or so it seems.

That day. John, closed-off, stripped bare. Sweat trailing down the back of his neck, spreading between his shoulder blades, darkening his shirt. Smell of salt and the clean musk of exertion, intimate, so intimate. It might be all that Sherlock ever has. Which would be fine.

Because now he cannot wish for more: his senses wide open, groping for data, for the shape of these murders. And John next to him, his gaze bleeding through the cracks in Sherlock’s awareness. 

It might be enough: a case, and John’s gaze searing through it. It’s more than Sherlock ever dared hope.


	29. 35 Weeks

“Hi, um. Is it too early?”

“No --” a muffled noise, Mary’s voice dusky with sleep. “No, s’fine. I should be getting up.”

“Go back to sleep. Just wanted to check in.”

“Hmm. I’m fine. Baby’s not out yet. Wait, let me check -- Yep, still in there.”

“Good. Okay.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Still working on a case. Slow going, it’s -- hang on. Greg’s trying to call.”

“Go, go.”

“Right. Talk later.”

* * *

This is John’s life now: the constant flux of switching lines, putting something on hold so he can scramble to the next thing. It feels as if he’s trapped in an hourglass that keeps turning itself on end, from Mary to the case, and then back again. The grim trappings of death on line 1; the thrill of new life waiting on on line 2. John takes calls in the morgue, listens to his daughter’s heartbeat while Sherlock examines a corpse. Meanwhile, the Christmas holiday clamors around them, all of London brimming with lights and noise and music. It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so brutally real.

But it is real, and becoming more brutal by the day. Lestrade’s call leads them to another skip, this time near Langley and Shelton streets, where an unlucky commuter found a body while binning the morning paper. Happy Christmas, indeed. This victim’s in his early thirties, dark hair spiked and sticky with product, dressed for a night out that never happened. Despite being found in a skip, this victim is neat and clean, from the groomed stubble on his chin to the shine on his recently purchased lace-up boots. He is also, much to their astonishment, not female. Sherlock insists on following the body to the morgue much as one would trail a two-year-old in a busy department store, unable to take his eyes away for a moment. He is utterly obnoxious to everyone within a ten-foot radius. John wants to strangle him by the time they get to Barts. In short, just an ordinary day.

Once at Barts, Sherlock perches on a stool next to the unveiled corpse, lost in thought. Molly makes the mistake of crossing his line of vision at precisely the wrong moment.

“Sherlock,” she says intently, not noticing the tangible thundercloud hovering around him, “there’s something on the third victim you might want to see. I can have her pulled out --”

“Not now,” Sherlock snaps.

John tries to catch Molly’s eye, to warn her off, but it’s too late. “There’s a freckle at the back of the victim’s ankle, I missed it on my first examination,” she continues. “It’s an odd colour --”

“Haven’t you got somewhere else you need to be right now?” Sherlock snarls. “Perpetually Single Cat-Fanciers’ society?”

John grips Sherlock’s shoulder without thinking. _“Sherlock.”_

“It’s fine,” Molly says, blinking a shade too quickly. “Fine.”

A heartbeat of silence. John glances down at his own hand, almost surprised to see it gripping the fine wool of Sherlock’s winter suit. Their bodies angle together, close and complementary. Sherlock has not flinched away.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, not bothering to glance up. “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” Molly says, flustered, and gives John an apologetic smile. Her eyes stray to John’s hand, too. “Um. I’ll just be going.”

A beat too late, John catches the assumption in her gaze. It’s an assumption he knows well; he’s seen it a million times, but right now, it’s a little bit shocking to see it on Molly’s face. _Molly_ , of all people, who should know them.

It’s the very same logical conclusion Mary had drawn about them. The one everyone always makes. But Molly -- Molly knows them better than almost anyone.

 _There’s nothing going on,_ John wants to scream. From the roof of Barts, if he has to, because God knows he’s got some unfinished business on that roof.  _Nothing._

Something in Molly’s eyes halts his train of thought. Something that’s soft, and sweet, and -- hopeful.

_Hopeful._

Slowly, by increments, Sherlock begins to relax under John’s grip.

Molly gives them a shy smile and vanishes from the lab.

* * *

The thing is --

No.

It’s ridiculous that Molly assumed anything at all. She knows them. She’s seen them. She’s around both of them all the damn time, and what’s more, there’s nothing to assume. There’s nothing to see. Nothing.

Well. Maybe she didn’t see anything. Maybe she didn’t assume anything -- she didn’t _say_ anything, after all. She just looked at John and turned a little bit pink. Nothing unusual in that. Especially not unusual in someone who’s been harbouring a well-known crush on Sherlock for years. Although, to be fair, Molly seems to have moved on, for the most part. But something like that probably never goes away.

Not that John would know. God no.

No.

John leans his head against the window of the cab. It’s smudged with fingerprints, but it’s cool, and it feels good against his throbbing temple. Sherlock, in the seat next to him, appears lost in the world of his phone. Although he’s seated an arm’s length away, his proximity is like a physical hand on John’s shoulder. John’s senses are tuned, as always, to the finest detail of Sherlock’s current state: his mood (intent), his vital signs (steady), his level of hunger (ate a bag of crisps before lunch, will need food within the hour).

Sherlock flexes his hand, eyes still fixed on his phone. John knows he’s craving nicotine, feeling the itch of a cigarette.

John wonders if he has ever known anyone this intimately, this closely, down to the flick of an eyelid. Maybe that’s what Molly sees, what Mary saw. Maybe that’s all it is.

* * *

When they get home, Sherlock takes out his giant map of London, already marked with pinholes like a thousand macabre stars. He puts it upon the wall behind the sofa and slides new, red-tipped pins into the spots where each of the four bodies was found. He paces a few steps back and turns to face the map, frustration evident in every tightly coiled motion.

“Four of them. _Four_. We’re missing something obvious.”

John stares at the pins, at the map, tries to drag his mind back to the present. To these simple markers, all that matters right now. Drops of red on a tangled web of city streets.

They’re missing something obvious.

_I thought it was obvious. I thought everyone knew, John._

_I thought you and Sherlock --_

“Truth,” Sherlock adds, without waiting for John to speak. He begins pacing again, slipping into the familiar, unconscious rhythm of thinking aloud. “There’s a simple truth to this. Something that ties them together.”

It’s just like when Sherlock came back, really. That first case. The simplest, most obvious truth.

“They’re Tube stations,” John says. “Is that too simple?”

Sherlock stops in his tracks.

“Old Street. East Acton. Embankment. Covent Garden.” John steps forward, points at the map. “Each of these pins is next to a Tube stop, a block away at most.” He shrugs. “I know, it’s stupid, you probably already --”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, next to him.

John’s heart rate quickens, and he dares a sideways glance at Sherlock. Sherlock’s entire face is alight, eyes scanning back and forth across the map.

A thrill of pure happiness rushes through John’s body. “Is that -- I mean, do you think --”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “Yes, of course. No marks on the bodies, no sign of anger or assault, no disfigurement, they’re perfectly preserved. What if it isn’t personal at all, it’s -- a _collection_.”

“A collection.”

“Yes, I -- _oh._ ” Sherlock turns, grabs John by the shoulders. “ _John._ ”

Sherlock is so close that John can see every fleck of colour in his pale eyes, the near-invisible scar at the corner of his lip. John’s pulse rockets. He is suddenly very aware of his own body, his own skin, his own breath. His mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes stutter over his face and widen slightly.

In one motion, Sherlock steps away, turning abruptly to stride toward the door. “We’re going back to the morgue,” he announces, wresting his coat from its hook. “I need to see those bodies again. All together.”

John’s head buzzes. “Um. Right.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock is saying to himself, as if nothing has happened. As if John’s skin isn’t tingling, the imprint of Sherlock’s hands hot on his shoulders.

Why. _Why_ does he feel --

Obvious.

The simplest, most obvious truth.


	30. 35 Weeks, 1 Day

Molly meets them back at the morgue, lab coat pulled on hastily over pyjama bottoms and a striped jumper. It doesn’t seem that abnormal; they know each other well enough now.

Molly does know them both very well.

“You’ve been in to see the body a half-dozen times already,” she says, with uncharacteristic petulance. She unlocks the door to the exam room. “I was going to watch _EastEnders_.”

“I need to see all the bodies. Today’s victim with the other three.”

Molly’s jaw clenches.“The earlier victims are starting to deteriorate. There’s nothing more we can get from them. We need to release them to the families --”

“Stop assuming I care. I know you still have them.”

Molly sighs, shakes her head. “You realise I don’t get paid for overtime.”

“John’s buying coffee.”

John sputters. “It’s after _midnight._ ”

Sherlock blinks. “Is it?”

“Of course.”

This conversation is mundane enough, at least for the three of them, but a surreal cloud of panic has settled over John. He had a dream, once, that he’d forgotten to wear trousers to school -- standard-issue dream, only notable for being a total cliche -- and this feels very much the same. As if he’s been bumbling through life with bare legs, socks pulled up proudly, shoes neatly tied.

He’s missed something yet again. Another layer in the miles-deep mess of things he’s tried to bury over time and ignore. Maybe he tried to unimagine it over the years, protect himself when the loss of it nearly killed him. He piled distractions on top of it -- a relationship, an engagement, a marriage. Maybe he thought it would vanish under the weight of it all. But it hasn’t vanished. It’s been there, underscoring everything, all along.

It’s not like he _wants_ to classify his feelings for Sherlock. It seems wrong, almost immoral. The very thought of it nearly makes him angry. They connect on a level John doesn’t care to explain to anyone else, much less himself. Does he need to define what it is? Why is it necessary?

Well, because he _needs_ to understand. Because, at long last, he has chosen to build his life around Sherlock.

Or perhaps it’s because he actually chose Sherlock a long time ago.

“All of them, please, Molly.”

Molly shuffles between locked drawers, sliding them out one by one with metallic thunks. John must have missed some part of the exchange, as Sherlock’s tone has shifted to a more docile blend of politeness and irritation.

And -- Christ. John should probably be paying attention.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” he hedges, praying Sherlock hasn’t already been explaining.

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat. “All of these bodies are nearly perfect. Flawless. Like insects on a pin. The cause of death in each case is asphyxiation, plastic bag over the head, something that barely leaves a mark at all. No fingerprints. No evidence.” He flips back the sheets covering the corpses, one by one, revealing clammy, near-blue skin under the morgue’s harsh lights. “We haven’t been able to find a connection between the victims, leading us to believe that they’ve been randomly selected -- impossible to guess the murderer’s next move. But they haven’t been dumped randomly at all. They’ve been left at different Tube stops. Could be a collection, and if it is, that requires obsession, _planning_. There’s bound to be a commonality we’ve missed, a reason that all of these victims would have been in the same location.”

“What if he’s a Tube worker? Or a bus driver?” John grimaces. “Or a cabbie? That certainly seems familiar.”

“Possible, but not every Tube or transit worker would have an easy way to track down specific victims. These murders were planned, precise. All single individuals who lived alone. The killer was ready for them. The victims died without a struggle, but none of them were killed at home. All of it suggests that these people might have initially trusted the killer, or that the killer had their contact information -- or both.”

Molly rubs her forehead. “But why re-examine the bodies?”

“Obsessive murders, following a pattern? If that’s a possibility, the killer might have tagged the victims.”

“Tagged them,” John repeats. “Like specimens.”

“Precisely.”

Silence falls for a few minutes.

“We can’t have missed anything,” Molly insists. “I just -- it would be unbelievable --”

Sherlock holds up a hand, and Molly claps her mouth shut, eyes wide. He holds her there, as if he’s keeping her mouth closed with the power of one raised palm.

They wait.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, and in a blur of motion, hurries to the far side of one of the examination tables. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again, eyes scanning, then stoops to examine the feet of the third victim, her blue-grey heels and ruby polished toes. “ _John._ John. Look at this.”

John swallows and takes his place at Sherlock’s side, feeling Molly’s eyes on them, wildly unsure of how close he should stand. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder to direct his gaze.

Which is fine.

“Molly mentioned this, and I dismissed it.” He glances up at Molly. “I’m sorry. Such a little thing. The little things are _infinitely_ the most important.”

A red dot no bigger than a freckle marks the skin on the back of the victim’s heel, just underneath the crease between ankle and foot. It looks like a rogue birthmark, or a tiny blot of permanent marker.

“We’ve been looking for something all four corpses have in common, but there’s been no way to narrow the field. Same coffee shop, the same pub, the same hairdresser? Same online dating service? No -- we’ve eliminated countless possibilities. We know they lived and worked in entirely different neighbourhoods. Three of the bodies, though -- three of them have tattoos. But we eliminated tattoos as a common thread, because this victim has none. Or so I thought.”

John’s mind crawls after Sherlock’s. “You think this little mark -- is a tattoo?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “And -- _yes._ ”

“What?”

“If someone tends to suffer from allergies or skin irritation, sometimes a tattoo artist will perform a patch test before inking them. They can wipe tattoo ink on the surface of the skin to test it. Or -- they can do _this_. Tattoo a single dot of color and watch for a reaction. Red tends to be the dye most people react to, if they’ve got an allergy. If that’s what this mark is, our victim was considering more permanent ink. Molly, if you’d take a sample?”

Molly blinks. “How did you --”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at John. “I watch television.”

Their eyes meet. Sherlock half-grins, eyes bright with wicked humour and the thrill of revelation.

Another point in time: the armchair at Mary’s, the old-stone taste of whisky at the back of John’s throat, the glow of the telly. That bloody show. _Coming up next, you wouldn’t believe what Nigel did after a night at the pub. I think a skull might cover that up nicely? You’ll never know it was there._

John had been numb, then, without realising it, seeking warmth from the hot burn of whisky. In a cozy house, with a wife and a job, he’d been numb. Cold enough that no amount of whisky could reach him.

And now, in a morgue after midnight, a bone-cold room in December, warmth floods through him as he returns Sherlock’s grin. It’s backwards. It’s utterly, utterly mad.

He loves that look, Sherlock’s grin. The genuine one, the real, lopsided one that crinkles his eyes at the corners. Such a little thing, but what did Sherlock say? _The little things are infinitely the most important._

John wants more of these grins. He’d be a very happy man if he could just see Sherlock grin like this every day. Even more, John realises, he’d like to be the one who caused it.

So. That’s... something. John licks his lips and glances away, heart skipping. Holy hell.

“You watch television?” Molly echoes, rummaging somewhere in the room for supplies.

“Mm.” Sherlock’s attention snaps back to the corpses, and he steps away to lean over the first body: a young woman, arms heavily inked. “This first victim has tattoos by at least a dozen different artists, if not more. These two victims, here -- the girl has four tattoos, the man only two.”

“You’re saying -- it could be a tattoo artist? That’s how the killer is -- marking the victims?”

“Possibly. At least, the killer is someone who would have had reason to encounter each of them, and have access to their address, phone numbers. Perhaps even know whether or not they live alone. Tattoo shop would certainly fit the bill.” He runs a hand through his hair. “If we can find the shop where the third victim got the ink test, and trace the tattoos on the rest of the victims, we might find our connection.” Sherlock pulls his mobile from his pocket. “This victim might have recorded her appointment for the allergy test. Lestrade will have access to her personal items.”

John should be paying attention. The details register, but only dimly, somewhere in a muffled part of his brain. Instead, he thinks of little things: the subsonic rumble of Sherlock’s laugh, the moment just before Sherlock’s eyes crinkle and nearly disappear in mirth. The soft, heavy weight of his hand on John’s shoulder. The easy way they sit together without saying a word. Each is like a drop of rain sliding down John’s scalp, down the back of his neck, drop after drop. Tiny points, and then: a flood. An ocean.

Sherlock hustles them out of the lab, and John drowns, just a little bit at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between chapters. Massive thanks to my steadfast betas, esterbrook & BakerStMel, who put aside election misery to read this chapter during the literal worst of times. It's my hope that this update can be a distraction even if just for a minute. Hope everyone is hanging in there. Love to all. Xxxxx


	31. 37 Weeks

John has a way of making time vanish. It’s not just that his presence is calming enough that hours slip by without notice -- it’s that he actually bends it somehow when he writes up their cases. Weeks twist into hours, days into moments. Tedious, forgettable nights of research transform, becoming spine-crawling and suspenseful through John’s rose-tinted memory.

Sherlock reads John’s blog more often than he’d care to admit. He knows John takes liberties, adds a dash of drama -- or a generous measure of it -- and skips the boring bits. But for all his belief in logic and reason, Sherlock finds he craves John’s dramatic distortions, the warm filter of his voice. John’s vision of Sherlock, bright and blazing in black and white text, isn’t really _Sherlock_. But Christ, it’s someone Sherlock really wants to be.

Reality isn’t John’s blog, however, and these days, Sherlock is not that man. Time refuses to bend and twist to John’s whims, and Sherlock’s theories stall like a car without petrol. After Sherlock’s bolt of inspiration in the morgue, the case drags, dull and desperate. Molly’s lab work reveals red tattoo ink -- it’s an allergy test, as Sherlock guessed -- but their victim’s organisational skills were nonexistent, and they can find no evidence of any tattoo shop appointment. She apparently used her calendar only sporadically, and none of her friends or relatives were aware she’d even considered a tattoo. Lestrade’s team recovers each and every crumpled Post-It in her flat, turning up several dozen phone numbers to be researched, catalogued, and investigated. Given that the median intelligence of the detective force is only slightly below that of a dairy cow, Sherlock is sure he’ll be looking into retirement by the time they uncover any actual leads.

In 221B, the flat’s walls explode with maps and images as if a Tube car has destroyed a tattoo shop in a head-on collision. They return from Scotland Yard one afternoon to find that Mrs Hudson has strung fairy lights around each window, illuminating the glossy crime scene photos tacked to the walls. Evergreen boughs drape lazily over the bookshelves; a tiny, crooked Christmas tree huddles in the corner behind Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock watches John’s eyes widen and take it all in as they shrug off damp coats.

“What day is it?”

Sherlock checks his mobile. “The 22nd.”

“Two days.” John exhales, rubs the bridge of his nose.

Their eyes meet, just for a moment, but there is no time. Maybe someday, on his blog, John will erase these hours, but for now they can only go back to work.

That night John falls asleep in his chair, laptop open, head lolling to the side. Sherlock gets up to make more coffee and sees that John’s laptop is only millimetres from sliding to the floor. He bends to save it, gently lifting the dead weight of John’s arm as the machine slips out from underneath. John shifts in his sleep, firelight scattering gold flecks over his upturned face as Sherlock sets the laptop on the floor. His breath huffs out in a sigh, close enough that Sherlock can feel it on his own face, across his cheek. Perhaps it’s what the aftermath of a kiss might feel like.

John’s mobile rests in his lap -- must have slipped under his laptop. Sherlock reads the lock screen without thinking. A single text message.

_Doctor’s appointment tomorrow. No need to come. Know you’re on a case. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. M._

Sherlock’s heart begins to pound. Panic, maybe. Guilt? No. He needs a cigarette, for God’s sake. He’d settle for hitting something, but that’s out of the question. John shifts again; Sherlock’s chest constricts.

John deserves so much more than this. He deserves far, far better than this fucking mess of a case strewn with torn-up bits of Christmas. John deserves the Sherlock from his blog. That other Sherlock would know how to deal with this, would have already found the killer weeks ago. That Sherlock would know how the _hell_ they can go on once this baby arrives.

Sherlock finds himself in his bedroom, on his mobile, without any memory of getting there. His brother’s voice materialises on the line, sharp even under the soft mask of dissipating sleep. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s voice doesn’t want to work properly.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Is there a problem?”

“I want you to phone Lestrade tomorrow,” Sherlock says. “We need to allocate more resources to the second victim. His team’s not turning up any leads with the third. The killer could strike again at any moment.”

He’s cringing before he even finishes: Mycroft will see through this. Sherlock wills himself to hang up, but as with many of his self-destructive habits, his body has other ideas.

“Why on earth,” Mycroft says slowly, “do you want me to get involved?”

Sherlock is unable to stop the charade; it tumbles out of him, a physical reflex.“You will not be ‘involved.’ I’m not asking you to get involved. Lestrade’s team is shorthanded --”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts, voice tempered with unusual quiet. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” A hateful, transparent lie. Sherlock clings to it stubbornly. “Why do you always assume -- _nothing_ has happened.”

Mycroft sighs, then casually reads Sherlock’s mind.

“She’s fine, Sherlock. The doctor’s been in touch, Mary’s charts are normal, everything looks to be on track for her due date. The new nanny moved in last week. Violet Hunter. Served as a night nurse for a fairly high-profile family, but Miss Hunter felt she’d rather work for someone out of the public eye, so to speak. Her employers were quite sad to lose her. I think they’re about to try for a third child.”

Sherlock’s heart rate subsides. He follows the lie to the bitter end. “That’s not why I called.”

“Then forget I said anything.”

“Good. Fine.”

“Mary will be staying with friends for Christmas. We have contacts in the neighbourhood who will monitor the situation, should any emergency arise. John’s been informed.”

“I’m aware Mary’s perfectly safe.”

“Well then.”

Sherlock falls silent. He feels incrementally better, and hates himself for it.

“I’ve arranged for a few things to be sent to your flat,” Mycroft adds. “For the holiday.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, at last. And then: “Thank you.”

“Mary might like to hear from you sometime.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. She’s fond of you, apparently. God only knows why.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Expert on emotional affairs now, are you? Branching out in your old age? One might almost think you’ve gotten... _involved._ ”

Silence. Then, after a moment: “Good night, Sherlock.”

The line goes dead.

Sherlock settles on the edge of his bed, drops his phone on the side table. He digs one white-knuckled hand into the duvet and holds on.


	32. 37 Weeks, 1 Day

Mary calls after her appointment, interrupting a tedious hour of phoning tattoo shops. It’s been days since John’s actually spoken with her -- over a week, maybe? -- and rather than the usual gnawing misery at hearing her voice, he finds he actually feels relief. He nods at Sherlock and takes the phone upstairs to his bedroom as Mary fills him in on mundane medical details.

“So the baby’s turned head down, and the doctor thinks she won’t turn again.”

John hums, pleased. “Clever girl. Clearly a genius.”

“Yes, brilliant. I think she’s sitting on my bladder.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

A wry chuckle. “I think it’s just going to get more fun from here.”

“Have you felt anything yet? Contractions, anything?”

“Not really. Just uncomfortable as hell. Feels like I’ve been pregnant since the late Middle Ages.”

“Take photos, will you? From the side.” John sighs. “Sorry I’ve been busy. I’ve been meaning to come over.”

John can almost hear the eyeroll over the phone. “You’re such an arse for hunting down a serial killer instead of dropping by.”

“Still. It’s Christmas.”

“It’s fine. I’m going to Susan’s tonight. We’ll watch romantic Christmas movies and absolutely not cry. And then I’ll kick back with a fucking glass of apple juice.”

“God, I’m sorry to miss it.”

“I’ll call you when it gets really exciting. Maybe we’ll drink a whole bottle.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

They laugh, easy and comfortable. For the first time in a long time, John remembers what it’s like to have Mary as a friend, and it’s actually damn nice. He settles onto his bed and leans back on the pillows, letting the weight of anxiety lift. It might be okay. They can still talk to each other. They don’t have to be married. Mary still understands him.

“You were right,” he says, the words set free before he can stop them.

“What do you mean?”

Anxiety comes crashing down again, multiplied exponentially. What is he _thinking?_ He shouldn’t -- he can’t. He can’t say this aloud, because it will become real. It will become a very, very real thing.

But he can also glimpse what it would be like to say it out loud. To confide in someone, to get a little help working through the mess in his head. The temptation hangs there like a rope thrown from a passing ship. He could take it, or continue drowning.

He shuts his eyes.

“You were right about Sherlock. How -- how I feel.”

A very long pause. John’s heart hammers. He opens his eyes; the cracked-egg plaster of the ceiling blurs into white.

“Oh,” Mary says at last. “Oh, _John._ ”

He wants to backpedal and blurt everything out simultaneously. The opposing impulses wipe his brain of all functionality.

Sensing John’s short-circuit, Mary lowers her voice. “Talk to me.”

“I -- I don’t know what to say.”

“Okay. Okay -- well. Have you said anything? To Sherlock, I mean?”

John can’t help a disbelieving laugh. “God, no. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I don’t even know what I want, I just -- Jesus, I’m fucking insane. This is insane.”

“It’s really not.”

John watches the cracks on his ceiling swim in and out of focus. He clears his throat.

“John. It’s good you told me, all right? It’s good. It’s okay.”

“He’s my best friend,” John manages, not sure why it seems important to say. “My best friend, Mary. I didn’t intend -- I mean, I married _you_.”

“I know. I was there.”

John chuckles weakly. “I know. It wasn’t even that long ago -- fucking _hell._ ”

“That wedding was like a runaway train,” Mary says matter-of-factly. “We got on board ages ago.”

“When I met you,” John admits.

“Took me a few dates.”

“Oh, you were on board sooner than that.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Absolutely.”

John’s thoughts stutter, then stall. Panic engulfs him once more. Why is he talking about this, and with _Mary_ , of all people? One minute with his guard down, and now --

Mary’s voice interrupts his nervous spiral. “What do you want, John?”

“What?”

“In an ideal universe. Which this is not, of course. But -- are you happy, with Sherlock, as things are? What do you want, for the two of you?”

John reels: Mary, direct as a bullet. “I -- I have no idea. I’m just getting used to the idea that I might... feel something for him. I thought it was friendship. I did. I wasn’t ever looking for anything else. He’s -- he’s a _man._ ”

“I did notice that, yeah.” She pauses. “That’s a problem for you, then.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m not opposed to -- no, that’s not the point. The point is, I wasn’t even aware I could feel... that. For him.”

“Mmm.”

John’s mind is racing now, careening through possibilities he hasn’t remotely considered. What _does_ he want, really? Clearly he’s emotionally connected to Sherlock, but does he want an actual relationship? And physically -- does he want that, too? Is Sherlock even capable of it? What would that be like?

Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs in the dim light of their flat. Stepping toward John, reaching out to unfasten the top button of John’s shirt. Looking at him like -- like he wants to _kiss_ him. Like he wants to do a lot more than just kiss him. That look. On Sherlock.

A hot flush rockets through John, electric and unmistakable. He bites his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.

“John?”

“I can’t -- I can’t talk about this. I’m sorry, Mary, I -- I haven’t worked it out.”

“It’s fine,” she says soothingly, and a tiny part of John’s frazzled brain notes that she will probably be a good mother. She really will.

John clears his throat. His hands are shaking. A new topic, any topic. “The nanny. How is she?”

Mary cottons on, jumping on the subject as if nothing’s amiss. “Oh, Violet? Amazing. I’m not worthy. I think she might actually be superhuman.”

“Really?”

“I mean, the baby’s not here yet, I told her just to relax, settle in, have a bit of a vacation until the fun starts. She said she’d stay a day or two to get the lay of things, then come back after the holiday. So in two days she planned a full week of meals, went shopping, and filled half the freezer with casseroles. Then she folded all the baby’s clothes and sorted them by colour. She told me she wants to review our ‘birth plan’ when she gets back, whatever that is. I told her I plan to have a baby.”

John gives a shaky laugh. “Good answer.”

“Speaking of. I should go soon. Supposed to be at Susan’s.”

“Yeah, okay. Right.”

“You okay?”

John lies through his teeth. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Good. I know you’re on a case. I’ll let you get back to it.” Mary pauses. “It was nice, you know. Catching up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

“Give Sherlock my best, all right? And take a break. Don’t spend your whole holiday looking at corpses.”

A quick laugh. “Will do. Take care.”

“You too.”

* * *

That afternoon, Lestrade stops by with a bottle of Scotch and orders them to take two days off. It takes John a surprising amount of willpower not to collapse gratefully into Greg’s arms when he holds out the gift.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. The tattoo shops are closed. My staff’s half gone,” Lestrade points out, mostly addressing Sherlock, who’s settled in his armchair.

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “Shut it. I don’t want to hear it. Let your best mate enjoy a day off, he won’t have any more of those for at least a decade.”

John sets the bottle on the kitchen counter. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“Just speaking from experience.”

John smirks, rubs the back of his neck. “So are you going to join me if I open this, then?”

“I might do. But I can’t stay long. Got some shopping to do.”

John’s stomach takes an unfortunate flip. He’s done nothing at all to prepare for the holiday. He did manage to send Mary a new dressing gown last week, but otherwise he’s been useless, unable to figure out what could possibly be appropriate for some of the other people in his life.

Well, okay. One person in particular.

John’s face must be easy to read, because Lestrade claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Just get me a serial killer, all right? After Christmas is fine. I know the delivery fees are outrageous right now.”

John chuckles. Lestrade joins in, settling onto the sofa. Sherlock, stone-still in his armchair, doesn’t laugh at all.

“Sherlock?” John ventures, gathering three glasses from an upper kitchen cabinet. “Shall I pour you some?”

In a single motion, Sherlock stands, collects his laptop from the desk, and tucks it under one arm. “No,” he states flatly, and stalks into the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. The door slams shut.

“Happy Christmas,” Lestrade calls after him.

Feeling more than a bit sick, John stares numbly at Sherlock’s door. He sets the glasses on the counter and gives Lestrade an apologetic smile. “Probably stressed about the case. We’ve been working round the clock.”

“I know he is. Don’t worry about it, John --”

“No, wait. Hang on.”

John ordinarily wouldn’t bother, but he can’t help himself. The conversation with Mary still echoes in his subconscious, and he’s spent the day trying to pretend that everything with Sherlock is perfectly normal, which is probably the best way to make Sherlock notice that things are not normal at all. Maybe Sherlock’s picked up on it? _Christ._ Whatever the reason, John can’t help feeling rattled. He walks to the end of the hall and raps on the chipped paint of Sherlock’s closed door. No answer.

He tries again. “Sherlock. You all right?”

“Yes.”

It’s not a “go away,” so John takes a chance and eases the door open a crack. Sherlock is sitting on his bed, knees up, staring at nothing in particular. His laptop rests on the bed next to him. He looks up at John, mute and unreadable.

John braces himself. “You, um. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

The snarl of dismissal never comes. Sherlock blinks at him. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock looked... a little bit lost.

Fairly close to what John is feeling, actually.

After a minute’s awkward silence, John clears his throat. “Okay. I know you want to work. It’s fine. We’ll leave you to it.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, and John pauses.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeats, and he actually looks it.

John swallows. “It’s fine,” he says, and shuts the door, his stomach fluttering for reasons he can’t quite name.

* * *

Nothing is good enough. Nothing.

But Sherlock can’t just give John... nothing.

Of course, Sherlock has long believed Christmas to be a tedious, hackneyed tradition perpetuated only to line the pockets of department store owners. But a small, deep-down part of his psyche begs to differ. That little part of him knows that it’s also a day to express things that are ordinarily very hard to say with words, which is both a wonderful and petrifying notion. Additionally, John Watson’s return to 221B is an event that should not be left uncelebrated, and Christmas seems a good excuse to do so. Although celebrations are an abhorrent concept as a whole, the idea of celebrating John is not only acceptable, but intoxicating.

Added to the complex equation: this is their first Christmas together in a very long while. Due to the imminent arrival of John’s child, it also could be their last.

All of this has led Sherlock to the conclusion that he ought to express _something_ to John, and ideally, in gift form. He should find a gift that manages to convey all of the things he wants to say, and not only that, it should be available in the next twenty-four hours, and small enough to hide in the flat.

There are plenty of things Sherlock can procure at a moment’s notice: illicit weapons, class A substances, false identification, detailed period costume, the list goes on. Procuring the item will not be the problem. The problem is identifying exactly what it should be.

_What does he want to say to John?_

This question makes their current unsolved case look like a primary school quiz. Several weeks ago, Sherlock had planned to devote time to answering it, but in the mess of the case, he’d entirely forgotten until Lestrade’s unannounced visit. He can hear Lestrade and John’s voices drift through his closed door, the relaxed, comforting sound of their mingled laughter. That’s all Sherlock wants in the world, really: the sound of John’s laughter in the flat. Only he’s not at all sure how to say that.

He thinks of John constantly checking his mobile, a tight line of tension visible in his shoulders. Waiting. This baby -- this _child_ \-- will change everything. Adding any substance to a solution always changes its composition. Simple chemistry, of course.

Sherlock wants to erase John’s worry, but this time, he can’t tell John that nothing will change. That isn’t true, and Sherlock has realised that where John is concerned, he prefers to deal in truth.

The truth is that Sherlock would be perfectly happy if John were next to him all the time. He would be even happier if he could touch John, just once. If he could smooth the lines of worry from John’s forehead, trace his thumbs over John’s hairline, cup his hand around the back of John’s head, slide his fingers over the hidden wealth of John’s skin. He knows what he wants is classified as romance, as _sex_ , but that seems such a simple, crude way of naming it. He wants to give himself over to John, wants to wrap John’s physical form around him, wants to shield John and be shielded all at once.

But he can’t say that. There is no physical gift that could express the nuance of it, and it’s far too risky to ever voice it aloud. He has to choose something else to say, something straightforward, something that will ease John’s mind and smooth the lines of worry from his forehead, if Sherlock cannot smooth them with his thumbs.

Distantly, he hears noise in the hallway: Lestrade bidding John goodnight. He catches a few snippets. _Good luck_ , and _call me. He’ll adjust_ , someone says. Lestrade.

“I don’t know,” John says, his voice a little louder, a little looser from the Scotch. “He’ll hate having a baby around. I’ll have to work out a schedule. Keep the visits to a minimum.”

Footsteps in the stairwell. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“I dunno, Greg, I hope you’re right. I just can’t see how it’s going to work.”

Lestrade’s voice sounds muffled again. A platitude of some sort.

“Yeah,” John says. “Goodnight. Thanks. Happy Christmas, mate.”

Sherlock can’t seem to move. He listens as John’s steps wander into the bathroom, as John turns the taps on and off, as he drifts back into the sitting room and turns on the telly.

All at once Sherlock knows exactly what he wants to say. No -- _needs_ to say. He doesn’t have much time. Ignoring the rapid patter of his pulse, he flips open his laptop and gets to work.


	33. 37 Weeks, 2 Days

Shopping on Oxford Street on Christmas Eve is like voluntarily popping into the seventh circle of Hell just for shits and giggles. It’s easy to hope that the rest of humanity will be saintly and organised, and maybe it won’t be that crowded. Unfortunately, the world is full of sinners, and at the moment they’re all crammed into John Lewis hoping for a shot at redemption.

John makes his way through a teeming sea of wool-clad, scarf-wrapped customers, through the men’s department, up and down escalators, past gloves and watches and hats. He’s not even sure why he’s here -- there’s not a single thing in this glittering shrine of consumerism that could interest Sherlock in the least. Still, it feels wrong not to make the attempt, and so, hunching deeper into his own scarf and coat, he heads out the door and back into the throng jostling its way up and down the street.

John knows full well that Sherlock detests Christmas, and as shoppers shove past him, John’s ready to admit that Sherlock has a point. But the thought of letting this date drift past unacknowledged feels like a lead weight in John’s stomach. They might not have this time together again. Sherlock will likely pull away as John devotes his time to the baby, and they’ll be left with a thin glaze of nostalgia, an archive of blog posts. Someday, John might want to remember this particular holiday.

Nonetheless, this feels futile. The glorious display of lights strung up and down Oxford Street seem to glitter with a mocking sort of menace. Everyone else is hurrying home to their tidy flats and their tidy little families with bags of pyjamas and Hamley’s teddy bears, and John is fruitlessly searching for an item that might appeal to the mad, murder-obsessed genius he happens to be in love with.

He’s in love with Sherlock. He’s pretty sure about that now.

Time seems to drag, an icy sludge of an hour. John’s feet ache. Shop displays blur together, faceless mannequins that might as well be victims in crime scene photos. When the sun dips just low enough to make the Christmas lights glow brightly, John buys a coffee and huddles against a shop window to drink it. On the other side, mannequins model a slick array of workout gear, neon and grey with new trainers that look like space-age socks. One of the mannequins is frozen in action, fists raised, ready to defend the world from the punching bag in one corner.

That’s the thing about Sherlock. That day after Mary’s -- no one else would’ve known what John needed. No one else would’ve even come close.

John gulps down the rest of his coffee and goes inside the store.

* * *

When John gets home, cold to the bone and with arms full of shopping, Sherlock is at work on his laptop. All awkwardness from yesterday seems to have mysteriously vanished, but John’s too exhausted to bother figuring out why. In any event, Sherlock is back to his usual brilliant-yet-infuriating self, and shuts down his laptop in order to deduce John’s precise route down Oxford Street. After three shops (all correct), John holds up a hand. “I didn’t go into battle with Christmas Eve crowds just to have you spoil your own surprise,” he gripes, and Sherlock gives a satisfied chuckle.

They go downstairs to deliver tea and sweets to Mrs Hudson, then bundle her into a taxi for the trip across town to her sister’s. Molly’s visiting her relatives this year, and Lestrade’s with his kids, so their evening suddenly looks remarkably quiet and empty. It’s not as if Mycroft is about to show up with a sack of toys and Christmas crackers, although the mental image does provide them with a few minutes of amusement.

As if the man himself has heard their laughter from afar, the doorbell rings a few minutes later, and two men in dark suits troop up the stairs to deposit heavy, fragrant bags and boxes on their cluttered kitchen table. Within thirty seconds, the entire flat smells of cooked onions and roast turkey, and John can hardly believe it.

“I don’t know how he does it,” he marvels, peering into the bags after Mycroft’s men have departed without so much as a _Happy Holidays._ “You sure your brother isn’t some sort of minor deity?”

“Quite sure.” Sherlock hovers over his shoulder, inspecting the bag next to John’s. “Why would a minor deity choose a human form that looks like Mycroft’s?”

John elbows him, but can’t help chuckling. “Be nice. This is lovely. I think it’s --”

“Dinner tonight,” Sherlock finishes, circling the table. “And tomorrow too, maybe. I recognise the containers. The Diogenes Club’s private kitchen.”

“Well. I suppose I’ll put off making that stew another day, then. Don’t think it would hold a candle to this.” John pops open an insulated container to reveal something that looks and smells like Christmas pudding. “Good lord.”

Sherlock looks both surprised and pleased, enough that John catches the emotion on his face before he has the chance to hide it. John opts to say nothing, but can’t help smiling to himself as they unpack the food.

It turns out to be a downright splendid feast. John texts good wishes and gratitude in Mycroft’s direction as Sherlock actually clears space in the fridge to hold some of it. They straighten and rearrange the piles of detritus on the desk, and before long they’ve found clean plates and wine glasses and a couple of fat beeswax candles in jam jars, leftovers from a power outage some years ago. John stokes the fire and lights the candles as twilight settles over Baker Street, condensation clinging to the windows as the temperature drops outside.

They fix themselves plates of roast turkey, Yorkshire puddings, and brussels sprouts, deciding the sausages, potatoes and carrots will keep best for the next day. It seems excessive for Christmas Eve, but considering they have enough food for several days -- or in Sherlock’s case, a good week and a half-- they tuck in.

As they eat, dry flakes of snow drift past the windows, and the noise of passing cars and buses begins to subside. The flat glows with golden light, crime scene photos fading into the tapestry of wallpaper and bullet holes, fairy lights woven through the chaos like stars. Sherlock seems content not to talk about the current case, and the conversation rambles from the turkey to the excellent wine to an old case where Sherlock deduced that a valuable engagement ring had accidentally been eaten by the client’s dog.

“She didn’t take kindly to my advice,” Sherlock says, stabbing another sprout.

John snorts.“What did you tell her? Oh, God. Please don’t say you used an analogy.”

Sherlock raises an impish eyebrow.

John begins to giggle. “Diamond in the rough? Hidden gem?”

“I think I might have told her to get her shit together.”

When they’ve finally finished laughing -- and eating -- they leave the washing-up in the kitchen, and Sherlock refills their wine glasses. John sinks happily into his armchair, and after delivering the wine, Sherlock takes out his violin and begins to play. It’s lovely, a wandering melody that seems to follow the trajectory of the lazy snowflakes outside. He improvises for a while, then catches John’s eye and plays a few bars of “O Come All Ye Faithful.” John grins at him, and Sherlock carries on through “Angels, We Have Heard on High” and a bit of Nutcracker waltz before drifting into “Greensleeves.” It’s so unexpectedly poignant that tears prick the corners of John’s eyes. He lets them come, watching Sherlock’s lean form sway and shift, silhouetted against the window.

 _What child is this_ , indeed. John will find out soon enough.

Sherlock lets the last note fade, then puts away his violin and settles into his armchair. In the mess of Christmas and case work, their chairs have somehow migrated closer together; at the moment, their knees nearly touch.

The fire pops and crackles between them, and a long, comfortable silence falls. Sherlock sips his wine, eyes bright, watching John with artless, unstudied focus. John recognises this look: Sherlock is recording this moment, filing this point in time into the vault of permanent memory. The thought of it twists John into knots, and he has to look away. It’s all too much.

But John can’t let this slip by. If he’s learned nothing else, it’s that he can’t sit idly and watch his life from the side of the road.

He clears his throat and looks back at Sherlock.

“I think,” he ventures, “if I could sit here in this chair until the end of time, while you’re playing violin, or sitting across from me, just like this -- I’d be a very happy man.”

A wondering look crosses Sherlock’s face. Just as quickly, it’s gone, and he smirks. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

John shoves Sherlock’s knee with his foot, feeling warm all over. “Why is that ridiculous?”

“There is no end of time.” Sherlock’s eyes glint. “Time is infinite.”

“Fine,” John says with mock petulance, letting his socked foot rest on Sherlock’s. “For all eternity, then. We’ll just wave aside that whole human lifespan thing.”

Sherlock answers with a rumbling laugh. His foot slides against John’s, and John’s pulse thumps.

“I’d like that,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “That would be... good.”

“We’re agreed, then. Right here, like this. All eternity.”

“Agreed.”

Sherlock’s smile spreads, slow and gorgeous and warm. John smiles back.

* * *

Eternity doesn’t last forever, of course; there are wine refills, and visits to the loo, and texts from well-meaning relatives. After a second course of mince pies, John switches on the telly, and Sherlock putters aimlessly about the kitchen before disappearing into his bedroom. When he returns, looking soft and rumpled in his plaid dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, John praises his brilliant logic and hurries upstairs to change into sweatpants and a loose flannel shirt.

John dozes on the sofa, changing channels, until he settles on a grainy version of _A Christmas Carol._ Sherlock, who’s been idly thumbing through a reference book on ammunition, sets it down, and to John’s surprise, eases out of his chair to slide onto the sofa next to him. John starts to sit up, but Sherlock merely shoves at John’s feet, arranging pillows to make room, and props his long legs on the coffee table.

“I like this one,” Sherlock says, leaning back. “I remember it. Saw it when I was little.”

“You watched television as a child?”

“You’ve met my parents. You should know by now our life wasn’t completely abnormal.”

John hums, stretching out, a few glasses of wine making him just bold enough to dig his feet under Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock doesn’t protest. When Jacob Marley’s ghost moans about wearing the chains he forged in life, John feels Sherlock’s hand close around his ankle. John wiggles his toes. Sherlock gives a faint squeeze, but doesn’t pull away.

Suddenly John is struck with a rush of past years. Bullets and death and Sherlock dying, my God -- Sherlock was dead for two years, a ghost haunting John’s every step. They’d both been so lost, almost irretrievably so. It should be enough that Sherlock is here now, that they are here together after all that’s happened.

Marley disappears with a clatter of chains. Sherlock’s thumb strokes the outside of John’s ankle.

It is very nearly enough, but not quite.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the distinction of being betaed *on location.* @BakerStMel happened to be a block away from Oxford Street when I sent this to her. When I say my betas are dedicated... really, Mel, that was above and beyond... ;)


	34. 37 Weeks, 3 Days

Christmas morning dawns, sweet and sleepy, like a swirl of golden syrup over porridge. John eases his way into consciousness, dimly aware of the noise of the kettle. He finds he’s still on the sofa, covered over with his plaid afghan, luxuriously warm. He doesn’t remember getting a blanket, but then, he doesn’t much remember falling asleep. Morning light filters through the open curtains and mingles with the glow of fairy lights, and new kindling pops softly in the fire. Sherlock’s awake, then.

John finds him in the kitchen making tea. They mumble their good mornings, falling into their routine of kettle and milk and and taking turns in the loo. By the time they’ve made their way back to the sitting room with steaming mugs and a plate of toast between them, a frisson of electricity wavers in the air, static sparks of nervous energy. Or maybe it’s John’s imagination; it’s difficult to tell.

Real or imagined, he can’t bear it indefinitely. “Be right back,” he tells Sherlock, and heads upstairs to fetch the awkwardly wrapped package in his closet.

The sight of garish Christmas paper and giant, store-issued red ribbon makes him faintly ill. Fucking hell. Sherlock will give him one of those tolerant-yet-disdainful looks, and John will stammer and blush and try to explain the bout of temporary insanity that resulted in this misguided purchase. It’s all about to be tremendously painful, and John’s only got himself to blame.

But there’s nothing for it. He’s all in, and at least it will give them something to laugh about later. Failing that, they’ve still got half a bottle of Scotch from Lestrade in the kitchen cabinet, and John is not above using it for medicinal purposes, even at nine in the morning.

When he gets back downstairs, cringing at the loud rustling of paper as he carries the package, he finds to his astonishment that a medium-sized silver-wrapped box is resting on the coffee table. His phone sits next to it, distinctly not in the spot he’d left it last night.

Sherlock reclines in his armchair, an artful display of relaxed confidence. He’s a marvellous actor, but John knows him well enough to detect the choreography in his pose. He feels a lurch in his stomach akin to looking over the side over a tall building. Sherlock has actually _bought him a gift._

It’s not as if Sherlock hasn’t bought him gifts before, but they’ve all been purposeful, utilitarian: a well-chosen novel before a long trip, a sturdy phone case after John’s phone shattered during a chase through Whitechapel’s back alleys. They’ve never coincided with a holiday, and even John’s birthday hasn’t merited physical packages. Dinner out, yes, but never an actual wrapped present. John swallows, wishing this didn’t feel so momentous.

“Well,” he says. He gives Sherlock a broad, open grin meant to put both of them at ease. “Happy Christmas?”

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock agrees, sitting up a bit straighter.

Nothing happens for an eternal moment, and then John remembers the basic principles of gift-giving. He hands over the package, which fills most of Sherlock’s non-existent lap, then sits down on the sofa, waiting for the awkwardness to intensify. Which it most certainly does.

“You -- got me something,” John says, after another long silence.

He expects _Obviously_ , or _Truly, John, your observational skills are unparalleled_ , but Sherlock just blinks at him. “Yes.”

Christ. John needs this to be over. He gestures at the gift in Sherlock’s lap. “I, um. Open mine, will you? It’s just -- a thing. A couple of things.”

He can’t bring himself to watch as Sherlock unwraps the box, so instead he addresses his commentary to the coffee table. “I didn’t know what to get you, I mean, you’ve already got a case on -- and I was just thinking, you know, of something we might do in the future, even though I might be a little busy now and then, but I wanted you to know -- that I, um, it’s important to me -- I want us to keep doing things, you know, just us. And even though I’ll have a baby, I -- I don’t want that to change.” An unsteady breath. “I know it’s a total dick move to have something for me in there as well, but I don’t want you to go alone, I thought we could go -- together. Like we did a little while ago. I really enjoyed that. With -- with you.”

When John dares to look up, Sherlock is staring at the gift in his hands: a pair of large, glossy black boxing gloves, with another, slightly smaller red pair still nestled in the open box.

John’s heart thuds in wild panic for a half-second, and then the look on Sherlock’s face begins to register. He looks -- well, he looks -- _pleased_. And surprised. And -- something else John can’t place. Sherlock unlaces one glove, then slides it on experimentally, flexing his fingers.

“If they don’t fit -- or if you don’t want them...”

“They fit,” Sherlock cuts in, and he flexes his hand again, then curls it, almost as if he can’t believe such a thing exists.

“So, um,” John says, after another interminable minute. “Is it -- are they -- okay?”

A beat of quiet.

“You want to -- box again, sometime?” Sherlock says cautiously, brow furrowed. “With me?”

“Yeah. That’s, um. That’s what I was hoping to convey.” John shrugs, feeling himself redden, and dives for the obvious joke. “Or you could look at it another way. I’ve just given you the means to kick my arse. Provided you can, of course.”

Sherlock’s bemusement gives way to a slow grin. “Oh, I most certainly can.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

“We’ll have to train you up a bit,” Sherlock says, and winks.

John finds it’s no longer an effort to smile. “I can take you right now,” he rejoinders, lifting his chin.

“Your naivete is refreshing. I look forward to proving you wrong.” Sherlock removes the glove, then looks up at John again, his expression startlingly sincere. “Thank you. Really.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They smile at each other. Simple, childlike joy blossoms in John’s chest, a pure little swoop of happiness.

Sherlock gestures at the box on the table. “Open yours.”

“Right.” John blows out a breath, and his shaky nerves roar back with a vengeance. “Okay.”

Sherlock watches intently as John rips the silver paper, revealing a technological product entirely unknown to John. It looks to be a large video camera, but that can’t be right. Some of the words on the box say “Wi-Fi,” and much of the writing is in Japanese.

“Um,” John begins. “Is it --”

“It’s a baby monitor,” Sherlock says, holding out his hand for it, and turning the box over so John can see a photo of a smartphone screen with a baby on it. “It’s a powerful camera, works over WiFi. The monitors sold in stores are rubbish, but I have some contacts who modify systems like this for far more accurate surveillance. The primary camera’s in this box, but the system will connect to other cameras in the flat as needed, as well as the cameras that have been installed at Mary’s.” He sets down the box and picks up John’s phone. “There’s an app for it, here. It’s capable of high-definition audio and video, but the app is sensitive to bandwidth and will adjust the quality accordingly.”

John stares at the box, his heart doing funny things while Sherlock continues to ramble.

“It’s two-way, as well,” Sherlock adds, “and it comes with a portable video monitor, so if you need to talk with your daughter, you can use the app on your phone for video or audio chat.”

He trails off, maybe because someone else should have said something by now. John waits, then realises he’s actually that someone.

“Sherlock, this is --” he manages, and then, because his brain has gone blank: “Did you say _surveillance_?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in patient amusement. “All baby monitors are surveillance devices. It’s just that most don’t have the advanced capabilities necessary for--”

“Sherlock,” John says again. He feels something inside of him breaking, a thin fissure cracking into rifts, everything deep and unknown rising up in a fierce rush. He can hardly look up from the box. “Is this for... Baker Street?”

“Of course.”

“You want her to stay here?”

“She’s your daughter, John,” Sherlock says, with the air of having to explain water to a duck.

“Right.” John puts the box on the coffee table. “Right, I mean. I didn’t think you’d want -- that is, I thought --”

“This is your _home._ ”

“It is,” John says wonderingly. He looks up at Sherlock, who’s drumming his fingers on a side table in a detached sort of way. John can tell there’s nothing detached about it.

Sherlock meets his eye and gives him a fragile little smile. “There’s something else,” he says, and stands up. He steps around the side table and behind his chair, where Mrs Hudson’s wonky little Christmas tree conceals a pile of magazines, a few cardboard boxes, and, as advertised -- something else. Sherlock drags the something else onto the carpet and pulls at it until it springs open, legs and wheels locking into place.

It’s a little cot. One of the small, portable ones that collapses -- narrow, with mesh sides. Oddly, in the jumble of furniture and random items in their sitting room, it doesn’t look particularly out of place.

“You don’t have one of these,” Sherlock says quietly. “I thought she might need it.”

The dam breaks. John’s emotions want to tumble out of him in a rush, laughter and tears and terror and love. He manages a grateful smile. “It’s perfect,” he begins, but the word cracks at the end, and he has to put his head down to keep from falling apart completely.

After a few moments, he feels the sofa dip next to him as Sherlock sits down.

“The monitor’s mostly installed, but the app has a few quirks,” he says.

John takes a slow, shuddering breath, and glances up at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles, lopsided, hesitant.

John feels himself return the smile, and as he does, a soft, frightened glow flares in Sherlock’s eyes. And with a sudden, wrenching certainty, John knows.

He knows that look. It’s the fear of going too far, of taking one extra step. He knows, because he feels it every fucking day. The fear of being discovered, made more acute by the fact that the man he’s in love with is the most observant human being on the planet.

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirk as he scans John’s face, inquiring, incredulous.

An entire accidental conversation spells itself out in a second. It’s the most monumental conversation of John’s life, in fact, and it happens in complete silence.

It becomes startlingly clear that neither of them knows what the hell to do about it.

“Quirks,” John says, a hoarse whisper.

“Y-yes.”

“You, um. My phone, did you --”

“Here.” Sherlock picks up John’s phone again, swipes at the screen to unlock it.

They lean in, heads together, as Sherlock navigates to the new app. John feels like he might go up in a rush of flames right there on the sofa. Mrs Hudson would be peeved about the scorch marks. Sherlock always gets them on the kitchen table.

For God’s sake. John’s nearly giddy. Sherlock feels _that way_ about him. He has to. He _does_.

John nudges Sherlock with his shoulder, hoping that casual ribbing won’t reveal the emotional apocalypse he’s currently experiencing. “You hijacked my phone, you realise.”

“I had to. It’s a necessary feature.”

“I know. It’s -- this is brilliant, Sherlock. It’s all brilliant.” John dares to reach out, squeeze Sherlock’s pyjama-clad knee.“Thank you -- so much. You have no idea.”

A sweet, timid smile hides in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He pretends to study John’s phone. “You’re welcome.”

Yes: They both know. Everyone knows everything, it seems.

Well then.

The day wanders on, bright and dreamlike. They make tea, return phone calls, turn on the telly. Somehow, by some miracle, John manages not to combust.

* * *

Later, they heat up the remainder of Mycroft’s lavish meal, and Sherlock doesn’t argue when John pours them both hefty glasses of Lestrade’s Scotch. Everything feels normal and entirely upside-down at the same time.

“This meal is so Mycroft, really,” John comments, between bites of sausage.

“In that it’s an enormous spread of food? Yes. Well, that’s Mycroft.”

“Not what I meant.”

“No?”

“You know, it’s thoughtful. Very much so. But also a little -- controlling, maybe?”

Sherlock’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You think so?”

“He did pre-empt all my shopping. But, I mean, it’s also damn nice of him. He does have his moments.” John waits a beat. “Maybe we should name the baby after him.”

John’s rewarded by the glorious sight of Sherlock nearly spitting out his sip of Scotch. When Sherlock’s mostly recovered, John catches his eye, and it’s enough to send the both of them into a round of helpless laughter.

“Mycroft Conan Vernet Ormond Holmes,” Sherlock says, as they pull themselves together. “Take your pick. I never envied him that.”

This nearly sets John off again. “Dear God.”

“Mmm. We’re just lacking a hyphenated surname to achieve the ranks of the truly obnoxious.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think you’re already there.” John grins. “I hope you fared better?”

“A bit.” Sherlock glances at him. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“William Sherlock -- your name is _William_?”

“Technically. I’ve never gone by it. William was my great-grandfather, Scott a family surname. My parents came up with Sherlock. The rest of the birth certificate was family politics.”

“Ah. Is that why Mycroft --”

“Exactly. As the first son, he got five family names. My parents fought over the order of the names for weeks. In the end, they just let my grandmother think it was Mycroft Vernet, and not Mycroft Conan, and never showed her any official documents. She even tried to call him Vernet for a while, hoping it would stick.”

“I bet he was fond of that.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Terribly.”

John absorbs this for a minute: this unexpected window into Sherlock’s life, the strange idea that John might have to name another human being. Not that the Holmes parents set a particularly good example. He’s never pitied Mycroft, but realises he’s just come close.

“Did you get him anything?” John asks. “Mycroft, I mean.”

Sherlock actually flushes. John wants to kiss him right then, just lean in across the table and grasp the lapels of his silk dressing gown. He doesn’t.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Mycroft likes games.” Sherlock takes a hefty sip of his drink. “Chess, mostly, but he’ll play anything. Scrabble. Monopoly. He can’t stand losing, of course.”

“You got him a game?”

“Mm.”

“Which one?”

Sherlock reddens again, a deeper shade. “I think it’s called -- ‘Sorry.’”

* * *

Sherlock is entirely secure in his knowledge on a variety of subjects: chemistry, of course, but also forensics, physics, regional accents, a thousand ways to kill a man without leaving trace evidence. He’s comfortable with certainty; it’s woven into his profession, after all.

He’s certain of a few new things, now. One, that for an intolerable half-second, his careful cover dropped. A little slip, a tear in the curtain, and John saw. John _knows_. He knows how Sherlock feels. The evidence is irrefutable.

But Sherlock also saw, in that half-second, the same emotion on John’s face. And he is very nearly certain that John’s feelings are -- well, that they are much like his own. ‘Love’ might be one word to describe it, but it seems inadequate for something so profound.

It should be easy, from this point. It should be perfectly simple: step forward, grasp John’s shoulders, and lean in. Let certainty take its course.

He’s never felt less certain about anything.


	35. 37 Weeks, 5 Days

By unspoken agreement, they get back to work.

Supposedly, there are more important things than simmering, near-flammable attraction, than the heat rising in John’s cheeks when Sherlock looks in his direction. A serial killer should theoretically take priority over the swells of overwhelming affection that threaten to sideline John’s thoughts at all times. The game is afoot, by God, so if Sherlock’s smile cracks through the cloudy morning like a bolt of lightning, keep calm and carry on. It’s what they do best. And at the moment, it might be the only thing they still know how to do.

They pour themselves into the case again, and their frantic energy forces the pieces together: in less than two days, they zero in on a final list of tattoo artists in the London area responsible for ink on three of the four victims. They still can’t place the allergy test -- the final critical piece -- but at last they can put down phones and laptops and start to eliminate suspects in person.

Thank God, really, because John needs a focus. The time spent holed up in the flat has been bliss, but since Christmas it’s been an anxious, awkward sort of bliss, peppered with increasingly frequent texts to his increasingly pregnant ex-wife.

_Baby?_

_No baby. - M._

_Check._

_Go back to sleep, John. - M._

The morning after Boxing Day, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom as John is finishing his coffee and a piece of toast. At the sight of him, any hope John had of focusing on the case flies swiftly out the window. He should have known. He should have prepared for this.

“What are you _wearing?_ ”

Sherlock shoots him his best _I-can’t-believe-you-function-with-that-brain_ look. “Clothes.”

Black jeans, form-fitting black jumper, blue scarf, black motorcycle jacket, black-rimmed glasses. And trainers. Bloody _Converse_. Sherlock’s only missing a beard and a latte, and he’d achieve full-on hipster. The tousled curls, though, and the way those black jeans ride slightly low on Sherlock’s hips -- John feels a little light-headed.

“I’m supposed to be in the market for a tattoo. This is more plausible than a suit, don’t you think?”

John swallows. “Um. Should I change?”

“Not if you’re hoping to pose as my father.”

John flips him two fingers and heads back upstairs, primarily so he can gain control over his heart rate.

He ditches his wooly cable-knit jumper and brogues for an actual Army-issue jacket and pair of boots, and goes back down to the kitchen. Sherlock, halfway through John’s abandoned toast, gives him a shy, approving glance, and John curses all available deities for not having mercy on him this morning.

Halfway down the street, John catches their reflection in the plate glass window of a cafe, dressed as if they’re headed to Starbucks to discuss a Kickstarter campaign. His entire life suddenly strikes him as so absurd that he wants to take a moment and just lie down on the pavement. This is ridiculous; they are _ridiculous_. This is the man he loves, and it may never go any further than what he can see in this reflection. Walking in step, an arm’s length apart. Dressed for the insanity of a case.

Maybe this is it: John’s mostly-happy ending. The two of them headed out into London, John’s gun tucked securely into his jacket, hot on the trail of a serial killer. John wouldn’t want to lose this, wouldn’t want to risk it after going through so much to get it back. Even if Sherlock does feel -- _that_ way, it’s highly unlikely Sherlock would ever act on it. Sherlock doesn’t do that sort of thing, not in all the time John’s known him. This, though? _This_ is what they do, for better or for worse.

John will get used to it; he’ll settle down. It’s been an emotional year, a difficult year -- a fucking _insane_ year. The baby will come, and he and Sherlock will adapt, and that, at least, will work out somehow. He knows that now, and the proof is currently tucked next to his bed in the form of a marginally legal baby monitor.

He did live with Sherlock for years without realising how he felt. He can try to forget again.

“Old Street,” Sherlock says, and nods toward the Tube entrance. As always, John follows.

* * *

“John Ballarat, Trevor B, and Elsie Patrick,” Sherlock says, trying to train his mind back to the case. Never in his life has he had to work at focusing, but then, he’s never watched John Watson walk down the street in an Army jacket and a pair of combat boots. “All of them work at shops in the area. It would be more efficient if we split up, but I need to see the interior of all three shops. We need to speak to every person employed at each shop, if possible.”

John’s eyebrows knit in concern. “Doesn’t that seem unlikely? Some are probably on holiday.”

“Timing may be an issue, yes. Ah -- here’s the first.” Sherlock inspects the exterior of Tin Box Tattoo, but finds nothing worthy of concern. “Come on.”

They push open the door to a jangle of bells. The waiting room at Tin Box is tidy and strung with fairy lights; sofas and chairs crowd around a table stacked high with portfolios. After a few moments, a young, heavily-tattooed woman with streaked blonde hair emerges from a back room. “Can I help you?”

Twenty-four, owns a lizard, bought her boots for the Glastonbury music festival, shagged a man there, broke up with him a day later, considering a tongue piercing but afraid her mother will stop assisting with rent payments. Not a suspect. “We’d like a consultation,” Sherlock says, sharpening his accent into something vaguely Cockney. “Is John Ballarat here today?”

The young woman raises her eyebrows. “Ballarat’s usually booked months out. I’ll have to see if he has a cancellation. For both of you, or just one?”

“Just him,” Sherlock says, and feels the tip of John’s combat boot nudge the back of his ankle.

“Oh?” The woman continues to scan the computer on the reception desk. “What are you looking to get?”

Sherlock nearly nudges John back, but finds he doesn’t have to. John lifts his chin. “A skull,” he says, jaw clenched. “To remind me of -- um.” He gives Sherlock a warning look, the one he uses when Sherlock fills the freezer with human limbs. “ _Death._ ”

Easy enough translation: John is going to kill him. Sherlock may have forgotten to mention that no actual tattooing will take place today.

The thing is, Sherlock thinks, John would do it. He would follow Sherlock into a burning house, across a bed of hot coals, all of it. Even though he has no reason to trust Sherlock. Even though Sherlock’s withheld information repeatedly, and still does as a matter of course. He’s lied to John and deceived him and left him for years, and John would _still_ do anything. After all of it, he still trusts Sherlock. He _more_ than trusts Sherlock.

It’s staggering. John, staring down the receptionist and telling her in all seriousness that he’ll offer up his body for permanent ink, just because Sherlock implied that it might be necessary. It’s terrifying. That anyone would unhesitatingly step into the line of fire, just for him. And John has done it from the moment they met.

Even more frightening is the thought that he would do the same for John. He has done, actually, more than John will ever know. It’s the scariest thing Sherlock can think of, to have this vulnerability. To know that anyone could take advantage of it, to know that he has something he’d rather die than lose.

He can’t chance this. He’ll take any risk, make any bet, but he won’t gamble what he has with John.

“You’re in luck,” the receptionist says. “He’s had a cancellation. I’ll go and get him. Just be a mo. Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?”

Sherlock’s mind reels forward as if jolted into hyperspeed. He takes in the pitcher of water on the back desk, the stack of paper cups, the nitrile gloves on a shelf, the receptionist’s computer screen. A possible scene assaults him: nothing concrete, but a story. A scenario. How it all might have happened. It didn’t happen here, but Sherlock knows what to look for. It spins out behind his eyes, a high-definition flash of possibility, chess moves that lock into checkmate.

He can’t tell John. He can’t explain. Like so many other cases, he needs John half-clueless, a willing accomplice who will play along without knowing his part. Another lie of omission to add to the pile.

John needs more than this, more than half-truths and magic tricks. He deserves more than Sherlock can ever give.

“Just water, thank you,” Sherlock says.

* * *

“At what point,” John rants, as they hurry down the street toward the next shop, “were you going to tell me I’m about to become the next contestant on Tattoo Fix-It? Why didn’t _you_ go through the bloody consultation? You dressed up for it. I’m just along for the ride.”

“I needed to look around. You provided the distraction.”

“And are you expecting me to show up next week and get that skull on my arm? Because I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to get ‘Never Listen to Sherlock Holmes’ tattooed across my fucking forehead.”

“Of course I’m not expecting you to get it. Which you’d _know_ if you bothered to think things through.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, maybe it would’ve been helpful to mention that little fact before I had to sit in a chair and concoct some bullshit story about a tattoo that I’m very much _not getting at all._ ”

“All right. I’m mentioning it now: You’re not getting a tattoo. Not unless you want one.” Sherlock slows to stop at a crosswalk. “I have some theories I’d like to test at the next shop. You’ll have to keep playing along. I can’t say more than that.”

John sighs, unable to maintain his annoyance, especially in the face of Sherlock in black leather and false glasses. “Fine.”

The light changes. Sherlock’s eyes cut to his before they step off the kerb. John can see anxiety there, a tinge of regret.

Damn the man. “You’re right,” John amends. “I know how this works. Sorry, I just -- sorry.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “I think a forehead tattoo would be an improvement.”

“Oh, you think so.” John tries to hide his amusement. “You’d need a matching one, of course. That way you’d come with a warning label.”

Sherlock rumbles a laugh, but it’s distant, removed in a way that John knows well: the case is monopolising his available attention. He turns abruptly, looking up at the street signs before making his way down a side street. “This way.”

They weave their way through Shoreditch, the sun dipping low despite the early hour. Holiday decorations gleam from shop windows, some still open for business, some boarded and locked. The city seems suspended in haphazard celebration, a cheerful purgatory of activity and absence. Waiting, half-awake, carrying on all the same.

Red Circle Ink, down a quiet mews behind a busy pub, is one of the closed doors. Sherlock knocks on it nonetheless.

“Maybe we should pack it in,” John says, listening to the noise of the boisterous pub patrons, and thinking wistfully of the pint he so badly needs. “We were lucky Tin Box was open. I can’t imagine we’ll get much further today. One out of three --”

Sherlock knocks again, louder this time, three insistent raps. The door rattles.

“Sherlock,” John hisses.

A door opens, but it’s not the door of the shop. Instead, a door across the alley creaks, and a man opens it. “Hey --”

“Sorry,” John begins. “Didn’t mean to disturb --”

“You looking for Red Circle?” the man says, and steps out into the mews. He’s even taller than Sherlock, with curly brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and round wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a tailored tweed waistcoat over a white button-down that strains over broad shoulders, giving him the air of a burly Victorian-era shopkeeper. He’d be intimidating but for his voice, which is high-pitched and somehow gentle. “We’re closed, sorry.”

“Are you Trevor B?” Sherlock asks, accent and posture shifting almost instantly.

“No, he’s on holiday. I can take your name, though. Tell him you came by.”

“Thanks, mate,” Sherlock says genially, and gestures at John. “My friend’s in from out of town, visiting for a few days. Thought we’d chance it, see if we could get inked together. He deploys after the New Year.”

John reflexively draws himself up into military posture as the man looks him up and down with interest. “Really?”

“Yeah, off to Afghanistan,” Sherlock says. “Out having a last night or two of fun. We were in the neighborhood, heard Trevor B was the best. Know when he might be back?”

“Not till after New Years. Damn, sorry about that. Can take your name, though?”

“Nah, no point now. We’ll keep looking. Half the shops are closed. Was a long shot anyway.” Sherlock claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “Sorry for disturbing you. C’mon, Captain.”

“Hang on a minute,” the man says, a soft sort of hope in his voice. “I can help you, maybe.”

Sherlock arcs an eyebrow. “With a tattoo?”

“I’m an apprentice, trying to get my license. I’ll open up the shop if you like.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “No offence, but how do we know you’re any good?”

“I’ve got a portfolio. You can come take a look.”

“I don’t know,” John says, instinctively playing along. “Look, appreciate it, mate, but --”

“No harm in looking,” Sherlock interrupts, draping a companionable arm over John’s shoulders. “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll buy this man a pint at that pub there.”

“We’ll buy this man a pint anyway,” John says, and catches Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock positively grins at him. _Good. Yes. Well done._

“All right, then,” the man says, holding out his hand with an eager smile. “Hugh Boone. It’s just Boone.”

“Boone. Call me Sig. This is John.”

They shake hands all round, and then Boone pulls out a heavy ring of keys clipped to his belt and steps forward to unlock the shop. They crowd inside as Boone flips on the lights, John’s nerves humming pleasantly. This is perfect. Access to the shop, with only a single staff member here -- John will distract him, giving Sherlock ample opportunity to excuse himself and find the toilet. Which, in Sherlock’s case, means a thorough scan of the facilities, complete with computer system break-in. It’s always nice when they don’t have to commit a statutory offence to accomplish this sort of thing.

Boone hands John a notebook heavy with printed photos of tattoos. “Take a look. Like what you see, I’ll get you sorted. On the house.”

John blinks. “On the house?”

“It’d be an honour. Captain, was it?”

“Yes. Well. That’s -- that would be great. Ta, mate,” John says, unable to help smiling back. Boone’s eager, almost childlike manner is touching; clearly he’s enthusiastic about his chosen trade. Up close, he seems even younger than John had guessed -- the beard’s clearly there to add years to what would otherwise be a round, freckled face. He can’t be more than twenty. John should be careful, or else he really will end up with a permanent souvenir just to make this kid happy.

“Have a seat,” Boone says, indicating the reclining chairs lined up along one wall. “Can I get you something while you look? Tea? Water? I think we’ve got coffee.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Sherlock says. “Have a toilet I could use?”

Boone fetches tea, and John sips it, flips through the notebook -- it’s good work, lots of intricate patterns and detail -- and he rambles on about his now-familiar skull idea. He’s starting to enjoy himself; he and Sherlock have found the rhythm of this case at last, and now they’re leaning on their familiar, wordless connection as always, relying on glances and cues. Sherlock will return and invent some excuse for cold feet, and they’ll buy this man a pint, and then Sherlock will crow about his discoveries all the way to the next shop. Surely he’ll have found something; he’s been gone long enough.

“I can draw something up for you,” Boone is saying, as Sherlock finally returns and folds himself into a chair next to John’s. “A skull’s simple enough, I think it shouldn’t take long. Did you want something as well?”

“The same as he’s getting,” Sherlock says, accepting a mug of tea with a nod of thanks, and taking a sip. “If John’s up for it, that is.”

“Maybe,” John hedges, catching Sherlock’s eye. “Still thinking.”

Strangely, Sherlock doesn’t give him any cues at all. “Let’s have the drawing, then,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”

“Pleasure,” Boone says. “I can print it out, you can try it on. No commitment.”

“Brilliant. Cheers.”

Boone settles his large frame in front of a computer and picks up a tablet next to it, presumably to sketch. Sherlock watches him for a moment, then looks back at John, eyes intent behind dark-rimmed glasses.

John could kiss him now, really. He could stand up and walk over there and kiss Sherlock, just press him back into the reclining leather chair, slow and languorous, as if no one else exists. John’s being deployed, after all. Afghanistan. He won’t see Sherlock for ages. It’ll be part of the act, and they’ll pull apart, and Sherlock will know what to do. His eyes will go red and watery, because John is leaving, really leaving, he might never see him again -- and one fat tear will slip down Sherlock’s cheek, and he’ll stand up and reach for John, and John will slide his hands underneath that jumper, right up underneath it where Sherlock’s jeans dip a little lower than usual, and he’ll feel Sherlock’s warm skin at last --

Oh, Christ.

Sherlock’s still here, watching him, watching Boone in that casual way that means he’s coiled wire-tight and ready to strike, and John feels warm, his fingers tingling, his skin a little bit numb, the tips of his toes strangely far away, and this is -- not quite right, is it? If he hadn’t been so damn preoccupied, if his life wasn’t such a damn _mess_ , he might have noticed --

Boone sets down his tablet, unbuttons his cuffs, rolls up his sleeves to reveal heavily inked forearms. Turns back to them, gestures to the computer screen. “So here’s what I’ve got. I’m not sure of the size?”

 _The tea_ , John wants to say, and in one nauseating flash he remembers Sherlock taking a sip of it. _Fuck._ He tries to catch Sherlock’s eye again, but reality doesn’t seem to be cooperating. His tongue doesn’t want to work, and he’s melting into the chair. His heart accelerates in panic, but it’s as if it’s been wrapped in cotton wool, slowing as soon as it speeds up. _Sherlock. Get out --_

“Oh, I like the one you’ve got,” Sherlock says, his voice somehow muffled. “Can I see that, on your arm? Is that a Tube map?”

Time unfolds for a second, as it did once in Afghanistan. John doesn’t bother praying, this time. It feels like asking too much. He’s already called in that favour.

On the bright side, he’s comfortable. This will be painless. He doesn’t want to go -- he’s struck with raw, deep despair, thinking of the one person he’s still waiting to meet. But Sherlock is next to him, and that means John is home.

In this wide, still moment, it’s all ridiculously simple.

The words fall out, a long, murmured breath. His eyes want to close.

* * *

“What did he say?” Boone says, seemingly unperturbed that one of his potential clients has slumped back in his chair, unresponsive.

“No idea,” Sherlock lies, his heart beating at the speed of sound. He closes his eyes, attempting to slow his breathing, willing his lungs to obey. He slurs his speech. “Bit sleepy. Warm in here.”

It is rather warm. His jumper clings to his chest where he’s deliberately spilled tea down the front, but it’s black and doesn’t show much. Sherlock managed to pull his jacket over it while Boone was sketching at the computer.

He has to wait a few minutes. Just like the ring, so long ago: wait for an opening. A slow-motion tick of seconds.

He replays John’s words. A soft exhalation, barely audible. Sherlock wants to shatter into pieces, subatomic, incandescent. But he can’t think about that now.

He breathes.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Boone says, his voice remarkably gentle. “Took you long enough.”

Panic hits like cold water. Sherlock hangs on to his control like a rider barely clinging to the reins. “What’re you talking about,” he slurs.

“You think I haven’t been waiting for you?” Boone’s voice, somewhere near his shoulder. “I know who Scotland Yard calls when they’re out of their depth. I read your blog. Big fan, actually.”

“Don’t understand.”

“You can sham all you like. You’ll be asleep soon. Five minutes or so. That’s all it takes.” A rustling noise: drawer opening. The snap of nitrile gloves.“I should get started on Dr Watson.”

Sherlock makes a show of forcing his eyes open. “You... it was you. Why...?”

Boone steps in front of him, adjusting his gloves. “I’m a very orderly person,” he says, in his high, quiet voice. “I like things a certain way. Patterns. Diagrams. I went to design school.”

Sherlock lets his head loll back against the chair. “But you... those people.”

“This city is chaos.” Boone opens a drawer again, pulls out a neatly folded plastic bag. “People everywhere. No order to anything. But design? Design is a way to contain chaos.”

He wants to talk. Sherlock needs to keep him talking. “The Tube.”

Boone holds up his left arm with a satisfied smile, a recognisable matrix inked on his inner forearm. “The Tube map is one of the world’s most perfect designs. Harry Beck, 1931. He realised you don’t need to show the chaos, you just need to explain it. If you draw the map as it is in the physical world, no one can read it. Beck’s design is like an electrical circuit. All about connections. Nothing else matters.”

“Still don’t understand.”

“Perfection is so hard to find,” Boone laments, leaning back against an empty chair. “The perfect design. The perfect _crime_. I researched them both. I wanted to connect the two.”

“For your own....” Sherlock takes his time. “... enjoyment.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Boone leans forward, eager now, bright-eyed. “Everyone is alone. It doesn’t matter if they die, it happens to everyone eventually. I’m using death to _connect_ them. In a perfect design.”

“One death... one tube stop.”

“Yeah. And if the crime is perfect, which it is, I won’t be found. Someday, I’ll connect the whole map.” His smile widens, genuine excitement. “I’m taking my time, but I’ll have two today. One for Baker Street.” He nods at John. “Do you think he’ll mind being Marylebone Station?”

“Not a perfect crime. I found you.”

“Took ages, though, didn’t it?” Boone beams. “A controlled amount of sedative, just enough to be out for a few minutes. It’s all about the timing. The body processes it so quickly. Suffocate them at the right time, and there’s no trace of drug left. No fingerprints on the body. No struggle. Choose the right people, and no one can find them. No connections, no roommates. I have their numbers in the system. ‘Can you come by tonight? We’d like to take a photo for the portfolio.’ ‘Did you want a touch-up? Come by later.’ As I said. Perfect.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John stir. “Clever.”

Boone hums, pleased. “Glad you think so.”

“You’re wrong, though.” Sherlock lets his eyes drift closed again, but not entirely closed -- just open enough to catch any signs of movement from the chair next to him.

“What do you mean?”

“Not everyone is alone.” Sherlock can’t help it; his words flow a little more smoothly than intended. “You may be. But not everyone.”

“You’re about to die alone,” Boone croons, his words nearly brushing Sherlock’s ear, and then, before Sherlock can react, a thick shroud of plastic closes over him.

 _Too soon._ Boone was supposed to wait until Sherlock was asleep -- for the drug to process --

The bag seals itself over Sherlock’s nostrils, shutting out air. He gasps involuntarily and it covers his mouth, a thin, unyielding barrier. He strikes out wildly, struggling to twist free as Boone yanks the bag tighter over his head. _How did he miscalculate?_

Boone’s shape looms, a lurching shadow through opaque plastic, one hand expertly holding the bag in place. Sherlock can’t get to his feet, equilibrium lost as his lungs contract uselessly. He lashes out again. Boone grunts, but Sherlock’s too dizzy to know if his fists made contact. And then Boone’s hand vanishes, and Sherlock wrests the bag from his head, gulping oxygen, tears streaming from his eyes. He hears a shuddering crash.

John is standing, bleary-eyed, swaying on his feet, fists clenched. Boone stares in disbelief, his hand on the side of his own face as he slumps against the counter, bottles of witch hazel and coffee cups upended -- Boone’s heavy frame must have smashed against it. John hauls back for another punch, the movement drunk and sluggish, and lets fly. His fist slams into Boone again -- left eye socket -- with a shocking amount of force. Boone, twice John’s size, bends double, shielding himself.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He sees his opening and strikes.

* * *

“Let me hold that,” Sherlock says. John’s hand, gripping his Sig, weaves unsteadily.

“M’fine.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. He checks it; Lestrade is only ten minutes away. “You all right?”

John licks his lips, nods.

Sherlock checks Boone’s pulse, two fingers to his neck. The man lies sprawled on the floor of the shop, nitrile gloves still on his hands, bruises blossoming over the side of his face. “Out cold. He’s not going anywhere.”

John nods again, lowers the gun. Clicks on the safety, fumbles until it’s back in his jacket pocket. He sways, a little bit.

Sherlock gets to his feet, knuckles stinging in a familiar sort of way. “Sure you’re all right?”

“Woozy,” John admits. He shakes out his hand, examines it. He’ll have a few bruises too.

Sherlock steps over Boone’s prone form so he can lean on the counter. He’s still vaguely dizzy. Oxygen deprivation? No. No, it’s the lurch in his stomach as a tiny part of his brain replays John’s words, the declaration in that murmured sigh.

John takes a step back, slouches next to him. “You let him drug me. Bastard.”

“I know.”

“S’alright. Confessed, did he?”

Sherlock can’t help a small smile. “Yep.”

John gives a long-suffering sigh. “He was going to kill you.”

“Bad timing.”

“Good thing I woke up.”

“Knew you would.”

“‘Course you did.”

They grin at each other, John’s eyes bright despite the lingering haze of sedation. Sherlock’s nerves blaze with a fresh surge of adrenaline. He should say something. He _wants_ to say something. This should not be more frightening than fighting a serial killer.

Granted, he wasn’t a particularly intimidating serial killer. But still.

“I thought that was it,” John says, voice still rough with sleep. “I thought I was gone.”

Sherlock’s throat feels tight. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“You miscalculate sometimes.”

“Never.”

“You do.”

Sherlock sighs. “I know.”

At their feet, Boone stirs, gives a pained groan. John’s hand moves to hover over the gun in his pocket. But Boone only snuffles, and lies quiet again.

After a long moment, John lets his hand settle back onto the counter. He laughs, wry and a little bitter.

“Things seemed so simple, when I thought I was going to die. I don’t know why everything gets so complicated once you take away the mortal peril.” He shrugs. “Maybe I should just stick with mortal peril.”

Sherlock lets a smile lift the corner of his mouth. “It does suit you.”

“I may have -- said something,” John says. “Before I fell asleep.”

Their eyes catch, and Sherlock can’t look away.

The universe seems so big, and so small. Vast, frightening tracts of the unknown, marked with tiny, familiar points. It seems insane to risk letting go, to open his hands and lose those familiar things that keep him afloat. John’s smile. His steady, compact form at Sherlock’s side. His voice, all wry humour and wit and comfort.

But maybe they’ve both already let go.

A pang of sadness steals Sherlock’s breath, sudden and strange. He takes it all in, every detail: John’s curious, quirked brows, the lines around his eyes, the worn seam on the collar of his army jacket. He’ll remember this, whatever happens, how it feels to be John Watson’s best friend. How it feels when they’re relaxed, when they’re joking, when John looks up at him and grins. It’s all about to change. Things change, after all. He’s an idiot to think that the two of them could be immune, that things haven’t changed already. That’s how chemistry works.

He would do it again, every time. He would jump again, if he could save this man. He’ll jump now.

“I heard you,” Sherlock whispers, and leans in slowly.

John meets him halfway.

* * *

It’s so simple, so _obvious_ , John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair, their mouths pressed together, so _easy_. Like a reunion. Like it should have been this way all along, except it’s also brand new and so, so brilliant, and John wants to laugh and cry and maybe bang his head against the wall a few times for good measure.

They fit together like old friends, because they are. Somehow, they know the right way to tilt their heads, the best angle, as if their bodies worked it all out in advance without their brains ever knowing.

John couldn’t have imagined this, though, the way Sherlock’s lips yield to his, the soft, shuddering breath he takes when John dares to deepen the kiss, the way his hands tremble faintly as they skim through the short hair at the back of John’s neck.

John’s been married, picked the perfect cake, had the house and the furniture and the dishes from Marks and Spencer, and never in his life has he felt the way he feels now, half-drugged, kissing his best friend in a tattoo shop with an unconscious serial killer at their feet.

His version of perfect just doesn’t happen to line up with anyone else’s. Except Sherlock’s, maybe. And that’s fine.

Brilliant, even.

Sherlock takes another shuddering breath, dares to slide a hand under John’s jacket, and -- oh. Nothing is better. Nothing will _ever_ be better than this.

They are both trembling now, and -- is that trembling? Or is that --

“John,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s mouth, and slips his hand lower, down past John’s belt loop -- low, into John’s pocket -- _Christ_ \--

And pulls out John’s phone.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock says again, more urgently this time, and pulls back with a kiss to John’s temple, pressing the vibrating phone into John’s hand.

“What --” John manages, and holds it up. Tangled together, chests heaving, they stare at the screen.

_Baby. Hospital. Now. - M._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowing down in grateful thanks to @BakerStMel and @esterbrook for their last-minute, on-call beta reading as S4 looms.


	36. 5 Minutes

The ride to the hospital whips by in a flash of police lights. Did Lestrade herd them into a patrol car? Yes. Yes, that’s what happened.

John has gone beyond overload, past thought and logic. As they rocket down Euston Road, he can only reach for Sherlock’s knee and hang on. Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own. They stay that way until the car lurches to a halt at the hospital entrance.

Time bounds forward, then stalls. They rush to the labour ward and stand, at loose ends, until a nurse spies John. John’s halfway down the hall on her heels when he realises Sherlock’s no longer at his side. He turns to see Sherlock alone in the waiting room, tall and dark against the pale pink walls and white linoleum floor.

“Don’t leave,” John manages, and Sherlock nods. Their eyes meet, a wordless conversation in less than a second:

 _You okay?_  
_Yeah. You?_  
_Yes. Go._

Mary barely registers John’s presence. Hair damp with sweat, she is propped on a hospital bed in a private room, knees pulled up and apart. A team of nurses has already assembled, hovering at her side. A cup of ice chips rests on a side table.

“She’s just starting to push,” one nurse explains. “Very fast labour. Been here less than an hour. Good thing you made it.”

The world swings, pivoting on its fulcrum, with their little hospital room at the centre. Mary opens her eyes, hazy with pain, and groans.

“Almost there,” the nurse says.

“Breathe, love,” says another.

When Mary exhales, the sound she makes is so anguished that John snaps out of his paralysis. He shoulders his way past the nurses and grips Mary’s arm. “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re _amazing._ Mary. You’re amazing.”

She pushes.

* * *

Their daughter emerges only fifteen minutes later.

Grey and slippery and covered in blood, she writhes against Mary’s chest, and then she’s bright pink, open-mouthed, eyes scrunched against the shock of it all. She wails, a strong, anguished peal of sound, and John knows her right away, doesn’t understand how she could have been missing from his life all this time.

They rub her down with towels. John cuts the cord with a steady hand.

Mary kisses her face and her little upturned nose and she cries and squalls, and John wants to explain that life is shocking, that it will always be shocking, and this is only the first of many shocks to come.

He holds her for the first time, a tiny, solid bundle with wrinkly pink hands, and knows he will do right by her if he possibly can until the day he dies. That’s just between the two of them, so he whispers it in her little translucent ear, and a lot of other things besides.

She’s on the early side, so they take her away for a few minutes to make sure all is well, but John knows she’s just fine. Her colour is excellent, she’s breathing without trouble. Clearly a genius. The best baby ever born at this hospital. He would bet anyone.

Mary sips water and leans back on the hospital bed, looking wrecked, but otherwise fine.

“You were great,” John tells her. “She’s _perfect._ ”

“She is,” Mary says, and beams at him. “The best one.”

They bring the baby back to nurse and she nuzzles against Mary’s breast, wriggling with instinct, and latches on. The fact that their child is competent at something at only five minutes of age is so flat-out miraculous that John has no idea what to do.

“I want you to name her,” Mary says, unable to take her eyes away from the small form nestled against her.

“What?”

“I mean, I get to give her -- this. I’ll be with her all the time, at first.” She glances up at him. “It seems fair.”

John blinks, utterly thrown. Their child absorbs Mary’s attention again, spreading tiny fingers over Mary’s bare skin.

“Just don’t pick something awful,” Mary adds.

They grin at each other.

“Right,” John says. “Right. Thanks for that.”

He’s not great with words, really, even though he’s supposed to be a writer. He doesn’t have easy access to language that expresses even a fraction of what he feels just now, what he felt when he first held his child in his arms.

It felt like the comfort of home, like the fear and joy and thrill of the past few days in Baker Street, like the moment by the fire he wants to remember always. It felt like the sound of Sherlock’s violin wandering through familiar carols. _Greensleeves._ _Angels We Have Heard on High._

He thinks of Sherlock, silhouetted against the window, coaxing those pure notes into the air.

“Gloria,” he says.

Mary looks at him in surprise, and then down at the little person snuggled against her. “Gloria,” she echoes, and in her voice it sounds warm and clear like a bell. “I... yes. Yes.”

Gloria, unaware that every minute of her life thus far has been momentous, opens her eyes.

“Is that your name?” Mary coos. “Gloria? Did your dad get it right?”

John is a father. He’s someone’s father.

He thinks, then, of families, of his family. Of his dad. How his dad might have felt at this moment, when Harry was born, when John arrived. His father would be a grandfather now, if he’d stuck around. If he’d found his way.

He thinks about how his own path will be different, and how he wouldn’t be here at all without one man in particular. He thinks about how he wants to twine their lives together, and how maybe that won’t be as scary as it sounds.

He can start now.

“Gloria Scott,” he tells Mary. “Gloria Scott Watson, if that’s okay with you.”

Mary’s brows knit in puzzlement. “Scott?”

“It’s a family name,” John says, and smiles down at his daughter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays and much love to all! <3 Xxx


	37. 1 Hour

Mary figures everything out in under three seconds. Apparently her formidable deductive skills can’t even be dampened by hours of labour and childbirth.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she says, pleased, as Sherlock steps cautiously into their hospital room, summoned by John’s insistent texts. John looks up from the bundle in his arms and beams at him, a radiant, thousand-watt smile, and before Sherlock can do anything else, Mary gasps. “Oh!” she says again, and then, with a low chuckle of disbelief: “Oh my God.”

Sherlock’s pulse quickens. He feels his mouth set into a thin line, but then Mary gives him an impish grin. “You two -- when? Just _now?_ Just before --”

“Mary,” John says sternly, but there’s nothing stern in his eyes as he watches Sherlock. No, his eyes are alight with warmth, and Sherlock curses the protocol that dictates when he should and should not kiss this man.

If John is amenable to further kissing, that is.

Mary ignores John’s warning. “Did this interrupt -- oh my God,” she says, with a gleeful giggle. “ _Christ._ I’m so sorry.”

It seems pointless to deny the truth, so Sherlock doesn’t, even though his heart is still pounding, and he’s not sure if the entire situation is bizarre or awkward or just plain strange. Without a definite answer, he pretends it’s none of these. “Consider it payback for the proposal,” he says smoothly. “Call it even?”

“You absolute wanker,” Mary says, still giggling, and motions him over to the bed. Sherlock obeys, bending to kiss her on the cheek, and she reaches up, cups his face in her hands, and kisses him soundly on both cheeks in return. He feels himself flush. Damn it.

John clears his throat. “If you geniuses are finished?”

“John. You didn’t even _say_ anything,” Mary scolds, as Sherlock straightens.

John laughs in helpless disbelief. “You were in _labour_. And I -- we -- Jesus.”

Mary attempts to compose herself. “Sorry. Sorry, I was just -- sorry.”

John takes a few steps forward and tilts the bundle in his arms until Sherlock can glimpse the tiny creature sleeping there, rosy-cheeked, with eyebrows and lashes like fair feathers against her new pink skin.

“Here,” John says, and offers the bundle.

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. Suddenly he is wildly unsure of his place in all this, in the brand-new Watson family. John is a father now. That will be John’s priority, _should_ be his priority; he can’t mean to continue what he’s started with Sherlock, not now. Surely he’s got more important things on his mind, and maybe someday in the future, when this baby goes off to school, John might remember what happened between them at the tattoo shop, and --

“Sherlock,” John says, low and reassuring, as if the baby in his arms has restored some sort of equilibrium to the universe. He steps even closer. “Hold out your arms, like this. Good.”

Before Sherlock can protest, John laces his arms into Sherlock’s, over and under, adeptly transferring the bundle into Sherlock’s waiting grasp. And then he doesn’t pull away, not entirely. He wraps a now-free arm around Sherlock’s waist, and leans in, lingering.

“This is Gloria,” he says.

Gloria’s weight in Sherlock’s arms feels like a tether to the earth. She shifts, arms and legs under blankets, and the scent of her is intoxicating, new and sweet and calming. She doesn’t wake. Her lips part, and Sherlock has never seen lips so perfect. She is, in fact, a perfect little person, and even in sleep, she is entirely her own self. Soon she will wake up and cry and grow up and ask questions and slam doors, and Sherlock wants to see all of it. She is _remarkable._

“Gloria... Scott,” John adds. He gives Sherlock’s waist a squeeze at the last word. “If that’s all right with you, of course.”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

“Scott?”

“Yeah,” John says.

“Of course,” Sherlock whispers, no longer recognising his own voice. “Of course.”

After a few moments, a loud sniff from across the room startles them, and Sherlock looks up. Mary mops at her eyes with a tissue, then blows her nose into it.

“Okay?” John says, his own voice surprisingly rough.

“The two of you,” Mary says, waving a hand, and her mouth twists into a strange, happy kind of shape. “I just -- my hormones. Damn it. I’m a bloody mess.” Her words break into laughter, and she blows her nose again.

Gloria stretches in Sherlock’s arms, and he looks down again to watch. Her brow furrows, and then her eyes open, unfocused and slate-blue. Her forehead scrunches tighter as she tries to focus on his face, and then her brand-new little nervous system pulls itself together, and they stare at each other in wonder.

“Hello,” Sherlock says.

It’s another of those moments he will have always, a moment he doesn’t even need a mind palace to keep. It will keep all by itself in his immediate memory, never too far away, nestled next to the evening by the fire at Christmas, and the kiss.

And then Gloria squalls, and John chuckles, and she is passed to John and then Mary, and a general blur of activity commences: a feeding and a nurse visit, during which Sherlock discovers it might be unwise to forcefully demand placenta and cord blood samples. At least he’s able to placate the nurse by speaking to her in her native Russian, although he’s not sure Gloria should have heard some of the Russian words the nurse chose to use at that moment.

John tells him to fetch coffee.

Sherlock obeys, knowing he’s cocked it up, but surprised he’s managed to last even this long. He’d expected to cock up within the first five minutes, and it’s been nearly twenty. And he should be on his way, regardless. He’s overstayed his welcome.

John follows him out into the hallway, momentarily empty of nurses and staff.

“Coffee,” Sherlock repeats. “Anything else?”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John begins, and then crowds him back against the wall, pins him there, and kisses him.

It’s not at all a goodbye kiss.

John’s hands grip Sherlock’s shoulders, assertive and desperate, and he kisses him as if he’s trying to compress a lifetime of thought into two minutes of action. Sherlock surges against him in response, so overwhelmed that he can only react in kind.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, and John steps back, breathing hard, and looks up earnestly.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk,” he says, “but I want to talk. Okay? Can we do that?”

Sherlock isn’t processing any of this at all. “Yes.”

John rubs the back of his neck, takes a breath, and then grins, lopsided and reckless. “And -- I love you,” he says. “I wanted to say it again. Um. Before you go.”

It’s a punch Sherlock doesn’t see coming. His eyes sting. He doesn’t know how to breathe.

John looks him over, taking everything in. His brow creases in concern.

“Yes,” Sherlock manages at last, breath coming out in a rush. “Yes. That. What you said.”

That brilliant grin lights John’s face again. “Later. We’ll talk more later.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

John seems to see something in Sherlock’s expression that makes him even happier. He nods, and vanishes back into the hospital room.

Sherlock lets relief carry him, light as a feather, out the hospital doors and into the waking city, until nothing is left but joy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there. I'd hoped to have this done by New Year's, but life conspired against me. Now my plot is doubly foiled by S4...  
> I wanted to take a moment to thank you all so, so much for commenting. All of your comments are very much loved, treasured & appreciated -- but I haven't had time to respond lately, since I've been trying to finish this up. Thanks for bearing with me, I'm very much looking forward to responding to them once this is done!  
> And thanks, as always, to esterbrook & BakerStMel.


	38. 5 Days

“You need to go home,” Mary tells him, on the fifth day. At least, he thinks it’s the fifth day -- it’s not like he’s slept for longer than a few hours at a time since Gloria’s birth. John’s short-term memory has disintegrated to such an extent that he’s drinking a cup of tea he made for Mary, forgetting he’d already made her one ten minutes ago.

He sighs. “I know.”

“She’s settling into more of a schedule. Less erratic.”

“Mmm. Eating like a champ.”

“She went three hours last night without waking up.”

“That was three hours?”

“Well, you didn’t get up.” Mary rolls her eyes a little. “You slept straight through that one.”

“I was up at five.”

“Six.”

“It was five, I checked my phone.”

“Okay. Point is, she’s fine. We’re doing fine.” Mary leans over, pats his arm. “We’ll be okay.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. Everything goes a little dark and wavy, but it saves a lump from forming in his throat. “I know. I know that.”

Gloria stays awake for longer stretches now, watching light shift through Mary’s curtains, her mouth forming a little newborn “O” of surprise. She likes music. Sherlock brought his violin yesterday and calmed her through a late afternoon crying jag. She seems to like her baths, too. She may have almost smiled at John during the last one.

He never, in a million years, anticipated it was going to be this hard to leave her. For a day. For an _hour_.

“Hey,” Mary says softly. “You okay?”

“Yep.” John nods. “Mmm. Fine.”

“John.” Mary nudges him with her socked foot; he’s on the sofa, and she’s taken over his old armchair, which has turned out to be a comfortable spot for nursing.

He and Mary are -- fine. They’re fine. They work well as a team, and they split duties without much arguing. He has a Li-Lo in one corner of the sitting room, not that he’s sleeping much. Violet the Supernanny has been helping out more and more, but leaving them with most of the precious early bonding time. At the moment she’s mostly been making sure they don’t starve. Her risotto is a thing of wonder.

He needs to go home.

He drains the last of his tea and sets down the cup. Mary’s eyes are red-rimmed, her hair in its curliest state of bedhead. It’s still early in the morning, not even eight; she’s wearing a baggy grey t-shirt, pyjama pants, the plush eggshell-coloured dressing gown he bought her for Christmas. She has a cloth nappy slung over one shoulder, even though Gloria’s been asleep in her cot for at least half an hour.

“How are you okay with this?” he blurts.

She’s caught off-guard. John doesn’t miss the flash of vulnerability that crosses her face, but it’s impossible to rattle Mary, and she laughs. “Well, after you leave, I expect I’ll have a long cry, but that’s only because I haven’t slept more than six hours this week.”

“Seriously, Mary. I mean.” He swallows. “With -- you know. Everything that’s happened.”

He doesn’t know why he says this until it’s out: it’s been too easy to talk about the baby, and only the baby. They could go months, _years_ without saying anything important, anything that needs to be said. In only a few days they’ve slipped into their old habit of comfortable avoidance. Which is not exactly right.

She exhales wearily. “I’m not entirely okay, if I’m honest. But I will be.”

John nods.

“It’s not like I set out to be a single mom,” Mary says, staring into the empty fireplace. “It’s not like I woke up one day and thought, yeah, I think I’ll be an assassin for a while, and after that I’ll get divorced and raise a baby. Not in my life plan. I mean, to be fair, I didn’t expect that out of the two of us, it would be you who ran off with the tall-dark-and-handsome man. But -- I _like_ you. I like _Sherlock_. It’s not like I’m going to haul off and shoot him, or anything.”

John snorts. “Thanks for _that_ image.”

Mary smirks, then sobers. “I mean, honestly. You and I had our own problems. I could be an arsehole about it, or I could just... go on with things, you know? Any idiot could see that you and Sherlock are obviously a pair. Even though it took both of you idiots a fucking _age_ to see it yourselves.” She leans forward. “Which is why you need to go. John. He’s been waiting.”

“He’s been here every day.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She nudges him again with her foot. “Go home tonight. You can see Gloria tomorrow, if you’re torn up over it. But go home. It’s New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve?”

“Get out,” Mary laughs, wresting the cloth nappy from her shoulder, and chucking it at him. “Out. Come back next year. Bring your boyfriend. Partner. I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t know either,” John admits.

Mary raises an eyebrow, settles back into John’s old chair. “Then go find out.”

* * *

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his microscope when John walks in, but his inattention is oddly comforting. Normal. Everything is just as it was: the yellow light, the dust on the shelves, the haphazard holiday decorations, his books and Sherlock’s magazines, his dirty tea mug from a week ago still on a side table. The flat is a patchwork quilt of the two of them, threadbare in spots, but entirely well-loved.

He leaves his bag of shopping on the coffee table, chucks his overnight bag on the chair by the door, and takes off his shoes. He’s just plugging in his phone when he hears a scrape of chair against wood, and looks up to see Sherlock standing in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled up, microscope temporarily abandoned.

“Hey,” John says. “Home for a bit, I think.”

Slow realisation creeps over Sherlock’s features, a strange sight considering that most of his realisations are too quick to catch with the naked human eye. He takes an eager step forward, then seems to reconsider.

“How was the night?” Sherlock says gravely. “Did Gloria wake up at four again?”

“No, not till five. She did a three-hour stretch. Less than a week old, and she’s already a better sleeper than you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twists. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Your poor parents.”

A deep, quiet chuckle. “Indeed.” He hesitates, studies John for a long moment: “You miss her.”

“Sherlock. It’s been thirty minutes.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, I do.”

Sherlock nods. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s -- it’s okay. I’m okay. Thanks.”

They watch each other, lapsing into a weighted sort of quiet. They’ve lived together for years, and by all appearances, it’s an ordinary morning. Yet here they are, at the beginning of something.

John gestures at the shopping on the coffee table. “Brought some wine. And some leftovers. And biscuits, in case we didn’t have any --”

Sherlock closes the space between them. The slanting winter light illuminates the dust kicked up by his barefoot steps. He tilts his head, inquiring.

Up close, John can see time etched faintly on Sherlock’s face, new lines at the corners of his eyes, a stray thread or two of silver in his dark curls. Subtle changes to such a familiar sight. They’ve known each other for quite a while, now. His best friend.

John nods.

Sherlock leans in and kisses him, tentative yet deliberate, one hand cupping the back of John’s neck. They’ve done this a few times now, out of sight in Mary’s hallway -- sometimes a hello, sometimes a goodbye. This kiss starts just like those, but becomes less unsure, and after a moment, John’s pulse ratchets up: this is quickly delving into new territory. No one else is here, the door is closed, they have all the time in the world, and they’re both keenly aware of it.

Under his hands, Sherlock’s heart beats in tandem, quick thumps becoming quicker. He’s afraid. They _both_ are, John realises. But it’s Sherlock. Sherlock would never let on.

John tangles a hand in Sherlock’s hair and deepens the kiss, then gently pulls away by degrees. He kisses Sherlock’s cheek, and the spot just where his shirt falls open.

“This is a lot,” John says. “A lot of -- newness, I mean.”

A flicker of relief in Sherlock’s eyes. “Yes.”

“We can go slowly.”

“If you like.”

“Well. If _you_ like. What would you like?”

Sherlock gives a helpless sort of shrug. “I like _you._ ”

John laughs, unable to keep the amazement from creeping into his smile. He’s accustomed to hidden glances, lingering stares, all sorts of subtle signals he never knew how to interpret. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to this new world, the one where Sherlock actually walks over and kisses him.

It’s very new. It’s a lot, very quickly. And right now, John’s so exhausted he’s not sure if he’s processing any of it.

But they do have time. There will be time to talk, and time to just sit and do nothing. And time to do all the things with Sherlock that John has only dared to imagine, and probably things he hasn't even dared to imagine at all. Even with solving cases, even with Gloria around. Even when it feels like the world’s exploding.

It’s not going to be perfect, not by a long shot. But perfect is highly overrated.

“I want to make a cup of tea, and lie on the sofa with you,” John tells him, “and I want you to tell me about the cases I’ve missed, and I want to watch crap telly. And just -- you know. See what happens? Go from there.”

“You want to watch crap telly,” Sherlock repeats in mock disdain, wrinkling his nose, but smiling. A real, eye-crinkling, lopsided sort of smile. The most important kind.

“Yep,” John says. “Tattoo show’s on later, isn’t it?”

The thing is, they’ve only ever needed one television.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my betas, and much love to all of you on this eve of the Final Problem. See you on the other side. <3


	39. 6 Days

John should’ve guessed that “go slowly” would never be a realistic expectation where Sherlock Holmes is concerned.

They watch the fireworks on telly, Big Ben lit up and tolling in the clear, cold air. Outside their window, they can hear scattered shouts, small bangs, a lone blare on a trumpet.

“Happy New Year,” John murmurs, half-asleep, settled comfortably in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, and tilts his head up for a kiss.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees, and obliges.

The kiss is one of dozens they’ve shared this evening, but its colour subtly shifts, as if a few sparks from the fireworks have accidentally infused it with chaos. In one bright half-second everything vanishes: late-night feedings, cases, divorces. John, relaxed and sleep-drugged, is suddenly wide awake, every nerve tuned to the gentle brush of Sherlock’s fingers against his jawline. Without really meaning to, he groans into Sherlock’s mouth. It isn’t just a muffled noise -- it rolls up from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and hungry and _loud_.

Sherlock shudders in response, a whole-body shudder, and breaks off with a ragged exhale. _“Fuck.”_

The involuntary expletive nearly breaks John on the spot. His cock stiffens painfully in his pyjamas. His ears roar with the sound of his own heartbeat.

They could wait, like rational human beings, and take their time, ease into the physical side of their brand-new relationship. It would probably be the practical, sane thing to do.

They have never been practical or sane.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, unable to stop his hands from tugging at Sherlock’s t-shirt as Sherlock’s stray dangerously close to his waistband. “Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock’s hands go still, his chest heaving.

“If you want to,” John amends huskily. “Only if you want to.”

Sherlock gives another long, shivery exhale. And then one of his hands closes around John’s, a firm, steady grip. An unspoken agreement.

They pull each other to standing, hearts pounding, hands still clasped.

* * *

In the darkness of Sherlock’s room, John’s nerves scream with adrenaline, fear battling arousal in equal measure. He’s never had sex with another man; he’s about to cross an irrevocable line with his best friend. He should be paralysed with fear.

He fucking _loves_ it.

As Sherlock closes the door, he must catch the look in John’s eye. The tension in his brow disappears, and he quirks a questioning eyebrow.

John grins at him.

Sherlock grins back.

“One thing, though,” John says, pulling his t-shirt over his head, surprised at his own boldness. His eyes have adjusted to the dim light, and he watches Sherlock’s gaze travel over his body, imperfect and middle-aged and scarred. Somehow he doesn’t mind, this time. Sherlock’s eyes glint, and a wicked smile tilts the corner of his mouth.

John realises that the thing he is about to say is huge. It’s a massive, terrifying thing, and in any other circumstance would require years of courage and at least two shots of whisky to voice aloud. He might send Sherlock running, might crush the new, delicate bloom of their romance. He’s not just jumping the gun, he’s vaulting over a city block's worth of cannons.

He meets Sherlock’s eyes, and thinks of another gun, long ago, a gun he fired without a second thought. And he knows that this won’t be a shock. This is something he knew long ago, the moment he pulled that trigger. Maybe they both knew, underneath it all, from that first deadly shot.

He can only hope.

“I just want to say,” he says, “This is it for me. There’s never going to be anyone else. Um, in case there was any confusion. I want you to know. You are -- you are _it_. For me.”

A beat of stunned silence. Sherlock looks down, and then back up again, and John’s heart hammers.

“I’ve felt that way since the day we met,” Sherlock says gravely. “But I -- didn’t work it out. Not for a long time.”

John, almost wobbly with affection, can only smile. If he stops to think too much, he might well have a good cry instead. “Well then.”

Sherlock’s grin returns, stealing slowly across his face. “Well.”

They do make an attempt at a careful start. Sherlock wrests his own shirt off, and Jesus, he is broad and strong and hard and so very much _not_ a woman. The first touch of bare skin against bare skin nearly undoes all of John’s tenuous control, and Sherlock groans and drops his head against John’s shoulder.

“Easy,” John murmurs, not sure who he’s talking to. Sherlock rumbles a quiet laugh that reverberates against John’s bare chest, and then he traces his tongue up the vulnerable line of John’s neck and licks into John’s ear. John’s knees nearly buckle.

“You cock,” he growls. “You --”

“All right?” Sherlock murmurs innocently, trailing a few kisses back down John’s neck.

He knows John’s never done this with a man before. They don’t need to talk about it. But this is Sherlock, checking. John’s sure of it.

“Yeah,” John says, tilting his head to look up at him. “Absolutely. You?”

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock says, and closes the matter with a kiss.

* * *

John Watson is naked in Sherlock’s bed, by some unbelievable stroke of nature. Or science, perhaps. Sherlock does not believe in luck or higher powers. Although this experience has come frighteningly close to upending his lack of belief.

John wants Sherlock. John _loves_ Sherlock. And by some miraculous feat of logic, John has decided that the best course of action is to get in bed, _right now_ , and breathe life into all the fantasies Sherlock has ever had.

Sherlock manages not to fall apart within the first five minutes. This, also, may be proof that a magical spirit world does exist. He files this fact away to revisit later.

Sherlock has had sex before, but always with an ulterior motive: curiosity, boredom, manipulation. He has never been chosen like this, never been told he is the only person, the _one_. He has never been with anyone who has known him well at all. He has never been anyone’s love. And he has certainly never been chosen by someone he loves with every ecstatic, riotous pulse of blood through his veins.

But somehow it is easy not to fall apart, because John needs him. John is new to this too, and they are never better together than when they are both out of their depth. When the odds are stacked against them, the odds are also remarkably in their favour. This is the sweet paradox of their friendship. Of their love, really.

So they take turns, control shifting between them freely, as it always has. John guides Sherlock back onto the mattress, sucks kisses against his neck, murmurs reassurance when Sherlock begins to tremble. John slots their bodies together with an ease born of experience, and then draws in an anxious breath as Sherlock’s erection bumps against his naked hip for the first time. And Sherlock, holding on with every shaky breath, runs his hands over John, adjusts their position, cracks a deadpan joke to make John laugh until the tension ebbs from their bodies. In this, as in everything, they save each other, over and over again.

When they are reduced to trembling, sweaty wrecks, when John’s cock is leaking between them and Sherlock is so hard he’s seeing spots, Sherlock feels John start to come undone, overload eroding his self-assured restraint. Sherlock has never been a part of anything so intimate, and his heart is not nearly big enough to hold it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing John back into the mattress with sure hands, sliding down the length of John’s quivering thighs. John _loves_ him. John trusts him, is letting Sherlock see him like this. Sherlock has _made_ John feel like this. “John. Let me.”

“Yes,” John groans, as Sherlock settles between his legs. “Oh, Christ. Sherlock. _Yes.”_

Sherlock takes John in his mouth, and though he knows precisely how to apply pressure, and although he’s made a study of the finer points of technique, he shuts his eyes and feels the satiny, salt-slick hardness of John in his mouth, and he is _gone_. No road maps, no plan, no precision: only instinct. He takes in every nuance of John’s breath, every twitch of muscle, every writhing groan, and simply reacts. _I love you. I want to make you feel it. I love you_.

John’s hips buck, and his hands clutch at Sherlock’s sheets. “Sherlock --” he gasps. “I -- I can’t --”

Sherlock wraps one hand around the base of John’s cock, finds one of John’s hands with the other, and laces their fingers together. He strokes John’s cock, slick with saliva, and slowly, sweetly sucks. And with a raw, helpless sob, John comes, pulsing in Sherlock’s mouth, gripping Sherlock’s fingers tightly.

Sherlock swallows, so close to the edge that it feels like he might freefall to a very rapturous death. He crawls up the length of John’s perfect, beloved body, warm skin and breath and lungs and heart, and kisses John’s temple.

John breathes, head thrown back against one of Sherlock’s pillows, eyes shut, every muscle limp. Sherlock kisses him again.

“I love you,” Sherlock tells him, and it is easy, now. The easiest thing in the world to say.

John laughs, still out of breath, and opens his eyes. They shine in the near-dark as he uncurls a hand from the sheets and tangles it in Sherlock’s hair. “You madman. You fucking genius, I love you too. Christ, I love you so much.”

Sherlock leans in to kiss John again, on the lips, this time. John hums into the kiss, and Sherlock loses himself in utter bliss until he realises he might very well orgasm in the next half-second.

Which would be fine, actually. It would be splendid.

He ruts against John’s hip, and arousal assaults him, acute and nearly painful. He gasps into John’s mouth.

“Oh God, hang on,” John says, pulling back. “Sorry -- I can’t even think --”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock breathes, because nothing has ever been finer than this moment.

“Come here,” John orders, and his lovely, warm voice holds both command and uncertainty. He rolls toward Sherlock so they are chest-to-chest. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” he admits, with a quiet laugh.

Once, long ago, Sherlock might have been embarrassed to be so overcome, might have judged it as an unforgivable weakness. But right now, his vulnerability feels like a badge of honour, and without hesitation, he lets John see all of it.

“Here,” he says, guiding John’s hand with his own, pulling it gently downward until John’s fingers touch the hot, throbbing skin of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s entire body jolts, and he bites down on a moan.

“Oh,” John breathes, curling his hand cautiously, so slowly, around Sherlock’s length, as Sherlock inhales sharply. “Oh, _Sherlock.”_

Sherlock’s higher functions rapidly flatline. Every cell in his body flares at John’s slightest touch. He may explode.

“Tell me.” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“Anything,” Sherlock whispers. _“You.”_

With a remarkably steady, sure motion, John slides his hand to the tip of Sherlock’s cock, and then back down, slicking the length of it with precome. His eyes meet Sherlock’s, and he smiles, as if they’ve done this a thousand times. And gently works his hand up and down, once more.

That’s it. With a hoarse shout, Sherlock comes _hard_. Harder than he ever has in his life. Orgasm rips through him from scalp to toes, wave after wave of delirious ecstasy.

He becomes dimly aware that John is talking, soothing words that break through the haze. _Amazing. Beautiful._ Sherlock’s limbs are pure molten gold.

 _“John,”_ he murmurs, and John chuckles, wiping his brilliant, gifted hand on the wreck of Sherlock’s sheets, then bringing it up to trace patterns on Sherlock’s chest. Gooseflesh breaks out over Sherlock’s body, waves and waves of it, gorgeous tiny sparks of electric light.

He thinks of a time when John’s hands were ghosts, when he could only imagine his touch. And now, in the circle of John’s arms, that time seems like a dwindling point, a receding shadow of memory.

They came so close to missing this. They left each other so many times.

“Sherlock?” John says, after a moment. He brings his hand up to trace Sherlock’s jawline. “You okay?”

It’s almost too much to think about. It’s like the theory of the expanding universe: they might continue into the future, indefinitely. Exploding outward, together, day by day.

John nudges him. They are a sweaty, sticky mess.

“Obviously,” Sherlock grins, and pulls him closer, mess and all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @BakerStMel for her actual jedi powers of beta brilliance.


	40. 2 Weeks

It’s not until they’re in a cab and on their way to Gloria’s christening that John realises he may be coming out of the closet in a Church of England. Which is odd, considering he was never in the closet in the first place.

Even odder, John still wouldn’t classify himself as a gay man. Although he’s just spent over a week having extremely gay sex with the very male love of his life.

Sexual identity questions aside, John should probably mention this relationship change to their friends at some point.

He and Sherlock have seen a few visitors at Mary’s, but everyone’s been focused on the baby, and it’s not like they’ve had much time to call everyone together over a pint and make a big announcement. Quite honestly, the baby has been the far greater upheaval, especially since it feels like he and Sherlock have always been together. Haven’t they?

They’ve told Mrs Hudson, of course. Although that may have been a formality, given that they were probably loud enough to hear from Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Day. To her credit, Mrs Hudson waited until John summoned her upstairs for tea and biscuits, and sat with eagerly clasped hands when he told her they had some news. Her surprise wasn’t terribly convincing, but her delight was so genuinely touching that Sherlock turned pink and John had to find them a box of tissues.

Since then, they’ve been on an erratic loop to and from Mary’s flat, with Sherlock taking occasional side trips to Tesco for coffee and milk. John overlapped with one of Molly’s visits, but not long enough for real conversation. And he’s been too sleep-deprived to think about anything but the next nappy change.

But now, wearing his best suit in the back of a black cab, with Sherlock at his side, John feels the weight of change roll over him like a slow, casual tidal wave. _By the way, you may want to tell your assembled friends and family that you’ve found your mate for life._

It would be so much easier if they didn’t have to say anything. And maybe they don’t really have to -- Molly apparently thought they were shagging months ago. They could just hope everyone else follows Molly’s lead and jumps to the correct conclusion. It’s tempting.

Sherlock deserves better.

It’s been heavenly, these past two weeks in the bubble of Baker Street, never thinking about logistics or labels or formalities. But the outside world will require an explanation at some point, and they should be ready to provide one. It’s really very simple: they are in love, and they always have been. Unfortunately, finding the right name for what they are will probably prove more complicated.

“You okay?” Sherlock says.

For all of his feigned disconnect, Sherlock can sometimes detect a shift in John’s mood with sobering accuracy. He probably noticed a crease in John’s brow, or a certain way John bit his lip. It doesn’t make either of them any better at talking, however.

“Yeah. Fine.”

The cab rolls on, starting and stopping in traffic, and John’s thoughts stop and start with it. What will their bizarre little family look like to outsiders? How will Gloria cope, having to understand that her parents fell out of love, and her dad chose his best friend instead? Sherlock has agreed to be Gloria’s godfather, but is that really all he’ll ever be? Does he _want_ to be anything else?

John glances at the man beside him and wonders if Sherlock has puzzled over any of this, if Sherlock might still be unsure of his place in John’s life. He wonders if Sherlock thinks their entire partnership will only play out behind closed doors, when Gloria is away at her mother’s.

The taxi jolts to a halt, and John pays the cabbie and follows Sherlock out onto the pavement outside the parish church in St George’s Fields, chosen to split the distance between Notting Hill and Marylebone. They’re barely on time, and as John hurries toward the church, Sherlock remains in place, absorbed with his mobile.

“Sherlock,” John hisses.

Sherlock barely glances up. “Mmm.”

“We’re going to be late.”

His gaze remains fixed on the screen. “Go on. I’ll be right in.”

John turns away, anger beginning to simmer in his already-churning stomach. Of course. Of course, this is _Sherlock_ , and this is utterly typical. God knows why John thought things would be any different today. He walks a few furious steps before stopping short.

Something about Sherlock’s stance, the way he’s holding his phone --

He’s not really reading his screen. He’s acting, putting on a show, because -- because he wants John to walk in alone. Why?

John wasn’t speaking much in the car, likely seemed preoccupied. Sherlock probably thinks John’s nervous about telling their friends about the two of them -- which is true.

But Sherlock may think John is ashamed of their relationship. Embarrassed. Concerned about what people might think.

The church bells begin to toll the hour as John turns and walks back to the kerb. Sherlock, in his crisp dress suit and without his Belstaff, looks slight, smaller than usual. He’s hunched a little bit against the chill -- it’s too cold to linger outside for long. The sight makes John’s throat feel tight.

John puts a hand on his arm. “Walk in with me?”

A deep line appears between Sherlock’s brows. “Busy.”

“No, you’re not.”

Their eyes meet, and John sees all of it: nerves, apprehension, even fear, all neatly hidden behind the shield of Sherlock’s piercing stare.

John steps even closer, cranes upward to brush a kiss on Sherlock’s immaculately shaved cheek. Sherlock sighs, as if he’s been asked to give up sugar in his tea, and pockets his phone. John slides his arm through Sherlock’s to rest at the crook of his elbow.

“Come on,” he says. “They’re waiting for us.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “They’re waiting for _you._ ”

“And you,” John says, “are with _me._ ”

There’s still a lot to discuss, but it’s a start.

Sherlock looks down at their entwined arms in somewhat grudging disbelief. “People will talk.”

“Good,” John says firmly. “That all right with you?”

He watches as it sinks in, the implications, the mess they’re about to make. The very real silhouette they’ll create, framed in the tall arch of the open church doors, backlit by the audacity of bright January sunshine.

The deep, worried crease between Sherlock’s brows disappears, and a fragile hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” he says, sounding almost surprised at his own answer.

John smiles back, and nudges him, tightening his arm around Sherlock’s. Sherlock takes a deep, steadying breath. And they walk through the open doors, bells still tolling clear and bright above them.

* * *

Lestrade finds Sherlock in a corner of Mary’s flat, nursing a glass of champagne and attempting to ignore the buzz of chatter that surrounds them. In true Lestrade fashion, he wastes no time in driving directly to the point, much like a bulldozer intent on levelling a block of flats.

“You and John,” he says with a grin, tipping his glass to Sherlock’s and clinking them, although Sherlock makes no move to reciprocate. “Thank fucking God, mate.”

“We did enough of that this morning,” Sherlock grumbles.

Lestrade, already on his second glass of champagne, chuckles. “Can’t fool me. Hide in the corner all you like, the two of you look fantastic. Bit tired, of course, but that’s to be expected.” He nods in John’s direction. “I’ve never seen a new father look so well-shagged. It’s against the laws of nature.”

Sherlock looks heavenward. It would be marvellous if some supernatural force would save him from this particular conversation. But he’d be an idiot not to expect this, especially from Lestrade. And he can’t help feeling a pang of pleasure at Lestrade’s genuine joy.

“He’s doing quite well,” Sherlock confirms, sipping his champagne for the fizz of courage it provides.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade admonishes, although his eyes glint when Sherlock dares to look. “I don’t need gory details. But for God’s sakes, I’ve known John a long time now. I’ve known you even longer. This is a big deal. You’re -- well. You know.”

“What?”

“You’re -- _you._ I mean -- it’s the _two of you_.”

Sherlock sighs. “Everything is fine.” He hesitates; this is not enough. Lestrade deserves more. “We’re very happy,” he adds, feeling himself flush.

Lestrade’s face cracks into an even broader grin. “Excellent. Well, I won’t pry. I just wanted to make sure. You know, it’s kind of an -- unusual situation.” His eyes light on Mary, who’s sitting on the sofa, cradling Gloria and chatting with Molly.

Sherlock has no idea what to say. It’s true, and he’s the very last person who might understand how to navigate it. “Yes. It is.”

They fall silent, watching the assembled tableaux: Mrs Hudson patting John’s arm, then kissing his cheek; a few of Mary’s friends from the surgery, clustered around the back of the sofa; Violet the nanny, having what looks to be a painfully awkward conversation with Mycroft and the Holmes parents. Detectives, nurses, the British Government. It’s one of the odder domestic scenes Sherlock can imagine.

“Will she be all right?”

The question is out before Sherlock can stop it, a rogue stream-of-consciousness thought. In truth, he thinks of Gloria more than he’d like to admit.

“Who do you mean?”

Christ. Now he’ll have to clarify. “It’s nothing.”

“Gloria? She seems just fine. Brilliant. Very sweet baby.”

“Yes, I -- well.” Sherlock takes another sip of champagne. “Unusual situation. As you said.”

The party guests ebb and flow. Mary props Gloria up on her lap, and Mrs Hudson leans in to coo at the baby.

“Here’s the thing. My wife got remarried,” Lestrade says. “I can’t say it was easy. It was messy and awkward and we’re still not really over it, but she’s happy, and her new husband’s not entirely an arse. And the kids are fine. They like being over there. I like to think they don’t mind coming to mine, either. It’s not totally normal, my job’s unpredictable, the hours are shit when it comes to scheduling visits. But I want to see them, and they know it. Their mum wants to see them. That’s all that matters. I mean, no one has a normal family, do they? Find me one person with a normal family. There’s no such thing.”

Sherlock finds his eyes stray to Mycroft, who seems to be passing through the seven levels of hell as their mother pats his shoulder and smooths down the lapel of his suit.

“True,” he murmurs. He feels a bit lighter. Airier. Perhaps it’s the champagne.

“There you are. Thought I’d lost you,” says a familiar voice, and an equally familiar hand closes over Sherlock’s shoulder as John steps between them.“Keeping him from bolting, are you? Well done. A credit to the force.”

Lestrade winks. “Least I can do.”

Sherlock scowls. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I know,” John says, and slips a daring hand around his waist that sends jolts of warmth up Sherlock’s spine. “That’s why you’re coming out with us for drinks tonight,” John adds, with a pointed look at Lestrade.

“You rewarding him for good behaviour?”

“Hardly. No, celebrating that he’s getting too old to bolt, these days.” His fingers tighten on Sherlock’s waist, a brief squeeze. “In all the madness, we missed Sherlock’s birthday.”

“I told you,” Sherlock protests. “I don’t need --”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade interrupts. “Of course. Happy birthday, mate. Tell me where, I’ll be there.”

“Molly’s coming, as well,” John says. “And Mrs Hudson, if we can persuade her.”

Sherlock can feel the satisfaction in John’s voice, washing over him as if it was his own. Perhaps it is. He wraps an arm around John’s waist, not caring in the least, just because he can. Because there’s chosen family, and family that just happens, and for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock now has both.

Lestrade, of course, misses nothing. He raises his eyebrows and grins at both of them like the Cheshire Cat, whom Sherlock somehow hasn’t deleted.

It’s intolerable, and also -- wonderful.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to BakerStMel & esterbrook for their above-and-beyond beta reading, despite planes and jetlag.
> 
> Also, everyone please check out the [stunning cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9819569) Bluebell made for this fic! I'm still swooning.


	41. 7 Months

Unsurprisingly, nothing is perfect.

“I can’t believe you forgot the nappy bag,” John rants, settling a fussy Gloria on his hip in the middle of a far-too-crowded Victoria Station. They're on their way to spend a weekend with Sherlock’s parents in the country, an arrangement John has begun to regret before even leaving London. He’d agreed to pick up Gloria at Mary’s and meet Sherlock at the station, but apparently he and Sherlock have proved incapable of managing both a baby and the requisite small nation’s worth of supplies.

“We can just go home,” Sherlock points out, checking his watch. “There’s another train in four hours. My parents won’t mind.”

“We’ve _paid_ for these tickets.”

“Or we’ll take a car. Mycroft --”

“-- will have a field day that we can’t get out of the city without his help. I’d rather not have him lord it over us for the next year and a half.”

Sherlock fights down a small smirk. “I’m supposed to be the one who resents Mycroft.”

“Sometimes it’s a two-person job.” John sighs as Gloria whimpers, a prelude to an escalating fuss, and shifts back and forth to soothe her. “Honestly. You remembered everything else. Your own carry-on, yes. Both of our laptops. A pile of ten-year-old cold case files.”

“I believe my parents have access to this establishment you term a ‘supermarket.’ They’re perfectly capable of purchasing nappies. We don’t really _need_ the bag.”

“She wears _clothes_ , Sherlock. _Tiny clothes._ She needs a bottle, and a dummy, and nappy cream, and -- why do I even need to explain this? Were you just going to fashion a nappy out of case files if she needed a change on the train? You think unsolved murders are particularly absorbent?”

Their awaited train opens its doors, saving Sherlock a response, and the next few minutes become a chaotic and uncoordinated juggling routine of baby, pushchair, and bags. By the time they’re in their seats and pulling out of the station, John is hot and sweaty and Gloria has begun to cry. He shifts her to sit more comfortably on his lap, but when he moves his hand out from underneath her, dread sinks into him like a stone: his hand is not at all dry. _Of course._ He swears under his breath.

“John. What --”

“Use your powers of observation,” John growls, hoisting Gloria up in order to assess the damage. Sure enough, a tell-tale orange-brown stain has begun to spread across the back of her freshly laundered pink coveralls, just at the crease of one round thigh. Nappy breach, situation critical.

Sherlock inhales sharply. “Shit.”

“Yes. Well done.”

Distraught at the humiliation of being held aloft in a full train carriage, soiled clothing on display, Gloria lets out a loud, pitiful wail. John lowers her immediately, but Sherlock is quicker.

“Shhh,” he croons, low and soothing, reaching for the wailing baby. John lets him take her, casting about for his jumper, which he’d taken off -- he could use it to wrap her up --  
  
Gloria quiets as Sherlock gathers her close, and John straightens in his seat, jumper in hand, to watch Gloria snuffle into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock cradles her in one huge hand without seeming to care what might leak onto it, and with the other hand, unwraps the scarf from around his neck.

“What are you --”

“We can clean it later,” Sherlock says, beginning to coil it around Gloria’s bottom. “I’ll just take her to the loo --”

Gloria grabs the free end of the scarf and puts it in her mouth.

“No, love --” John begins.

Gloria’s little round face begins to scrunch up as she readies another cry. Her wispy curls stand out against her reddening forehead, a bright yellow-blonde so like John’s childhood photos. She’s generally a calm baby, and makes them feel like they know what they’re doing -- he and Sherlock aren’t too bad at baby-wrangling. Except, of course, for right now. It seems as if the entire train is staring, judging them for daring to think they could succeed at this endeavour. And honestly, maybe it was insane to think they could.

Sherlock picks up the end of his scarf, shakes it at Gloria, lifts it up and down and then bops her gently on the nose with it. She stares. He repeats the motion, then kisses her nose.

Gloria reaches out with tiny, chubby hands, but doesn’t grab at the scarf. Instead, she lunges forward, leaning into Sherlock, and plants her open mouth on his cheek.

Warmth swells in John’s chest. Sherlock’s eyes go wide, and he pulls back, not bothering to wipe the trail of baby drool from his face.

Gloria, thrilled at Sherlock’s apparent surprise, lunges in again, mouth open in a wet, wide little “O.” “Aahhhhomm,” she says, against Sherlock’s face.

“A kiss,” John says, and suddenly, he would gladly tackle a thousand nappy failures on a thousand crowded trains. Gloria pulls back, tears forgotten, and stretches a hand toward John. _Kiss._

“Kiss,” John tells her proudly, and kisses her cheek. She gives him a gummy smile, and he does it again. She gloms onto his cheek in return, thrilled with this new game. He laughs. “Now kiss your godfather.”

 _Kiss your godfather._ Said aloud, with the three of them huddled together, sticky with all variety of Gloria-given mess, it sounds horribly wrong. Formal. Not at all like this man who has stayed up countless nights soothing a fussy Gloria so John could sleep, who mixed her first meal of solid food with the precision of a graduate chemist, who’s sitting here now with his beautiful Harrods scarf wrapped around her bum, catching all manner of unfortunate leaks.

“No, wait,” John amends, catching Sherlock’s eye over Gloria’s blonde head. “Kiss your Papa.”

Sherlock blinks at John.

John raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

The train rattles on.

The expression on Sherlock’s face says far more than any response he might have given. John gives Gloria another kiss demonstration, this time on Sherlock’s cheek.

Gloria’s Papa kisses them back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects, and thanks especially to everyone who has commented along the way. We're almost there.


	42. 5 Years

Sherlock tastes blood.

The familiar tang of iron blooms in his mouth as he licks his lips, throwing up a gloved hand to block the punch he knows will follow. If he’s honest, he wants to block John’s line of sight as well. The bleeding should stop in a moment, and the split lip was entirely accidental, a byproduct of a slightly overeager left hook. Still, John doesn’t need to see such a minor injury. Sherlock wouldn’t want to worry his doctor.

“Too slow, Holmes,” John taunts, brash energy heating his already-warm voice.

Sherlock rumbles a laugh, the metallic taste crackling through his veins, brightening all the colour in his vision. His breath comes fast and easy, sweat trickling down his temples. John takes another jab, but he blocks it, then lowers his defences and readies a fist. John knows him too well, won’t step within reach, but Sherlock’s not nearly as slow as John claims. Not yet, anyway.

His feet shuffle on the mat, and with a dodge and weave, he steps within striking distance and aims, just like always: the click of a camera’s shutter. He’s quicker this time, and John is caught off-guard, dodging just a fraction too late. The punch connects, glancing off John’s good shoulder. John stumbles but recovers, laughing as he wipes the sweat from his face with the flat of his forearm.

“Too slow, Watson.”

A wide grin. “Sod off.”

“Never.”

They circle each other, a well-loved dance, hearts beating in time. These days, they’re both a little broader, more settled, but it hasn’t sapped their speed -- practise has only improved it. They’re well-known in the gym, and no one gives them a second look as they lace up their gloves, red vs. black, and conduct entire discussions with punches alone. Sometimes, after a day of murder and blackmail, tantrums and Thomas the Tank Engine, they need it.

“Hang on. Let me see your mouth.”

“It’s fine.”

“Sherlock.” John holds up a gloved hand, breaks their shuffling circle. Walks into the space between them. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Sherlock sighs, slows to a stop. Stands, gloves at his sides. _Honestly._

John reads the look on his face, rolls his eyes, and unlaces one of his own gloves. He reaches up with warm fingers to brush Sherlock’s sweaty curls from his forehead. “Bend down, you arse. Let me see.”

Sherlock acquiesces. Their breath mingles. John cups Sherlock’s jaw in his hand, turns Sherlock’s face one way, then the other. Runs the pad of his thumb gently along Sherlock’s lip.

“It’s just barely split. Right there.”

“I know.”

John looks sheepish. Up close, his eyes have lost focus, his gaze softening. “Sorry.”

“I said, it’s fine.”

“Let me make sure.”

Before Sherlock can speak, John’s lips meet his, metal and salt and beloved pressure. John fumbles with his remaining glove; both red gloves hit the mat, and his steady, healing hands wind into Sherlock’s damp hair. Two black gloves follow the red ones, one thump, then another, percussive beats that match the thump of Sherlock’s heart as he draws his doctor close, his partner, his love.

There will always be bouts in the ring, the chaos of family, murder and adrenaline and impossible mess. They exist in the middle of all of it, unshakeable, secure, seeking the small, secret thrills: Gloria’s hand in theirs, a fire roaring in Baker Street, the click of handcuffs when Lestrade arrives, _again, yes, let’s do it again_. And sometimes, just sometimes, they find that moment when the world slows down, when they can drop their gloves, and stop fighting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Five years, what a surprise.... -David Bowie_
> 
>  
> 
> This fic started as a tiny bit of improvisational writing, and accidentally turned into much more. My betas, BakerStMel & esterbrook, were endlessly encouraging, helpful, and patient as this work became a much longer project than I'd intended.
> 
> More recently, this story became a place I could escape to when the world got scary, and your comments here and on Twitter gave me so much happiness during a tough time. I'll miss this very much.
> 
> Also, please do check out Bluebell's glorious [cover art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9819569) for this fic.
> 
> Canon references in this fic: _The Missing Three-Quarter, The Second Stain, The Copper Beeches, The Red Circle_ , Watson's famous tin box, and of course, the _Gloria Scott_.
> 
> Song that pulled me through the big scenes: primarily Adele's "When We Were Young." And ETA: I thought I'd credited this fanvid along the way, but I can't see that I did. Big thanks to Tru Tru and her "Saturn" fanvid, which I watched repeatedly in order to finish the story. Check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcsA7u7bp1c).
> 
> Thanks so much for coming with me on this one. Till next time. <3 
> 
> \- Mars (@marsdaydream)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Points](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819569) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)
  * [[PODFIC] Points](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491750) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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